


The Unravelling Truth

by HaadogeiPipe



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Voldemort, Angst, Asexual Character, Attempted Rape/Non-Con, BDSM, Dom Harry, F/F, F/M, Headmaster Lucius Malfoy, Hermione teenage mother, Hogwarts Seventh Year, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Master/Servant, Original Character(s), Polyamorous Character, Romance, Slytherin Luna
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-05-16
Updated: 2017-05-16
Packaged: 2018-11-01 12:04:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 139,494
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10921455
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/HaadogeiPipe/pseuds/HaadogeiPipe
Summary: Harry Potter is returning to Hogwarts for his final year and all he wants is to enjoy every moment of it to its fullest. Unfortunately, he manages to piss off the Headmaster's son one time too many and gets landed with the worst punishment imaginable: to act as Draco Malfoy's servant indefinitely. He expects Malfoy to take full advantage of this new dynamic between them, but what he doesn't expect is the sudden attraction the blonde ignites in him.





	1. The Start of Something New

 

 

The noises. All the noises were drowning out everything that was part of herself. She could no longer hear the beating of her own heart, even though it was flinging itself against her ribcage in a desperate attempt to flee her chest, and the singsong of blood being pumped through her body had always been a great comfort to her—a proof that she was alive. Neither could she hear her own frantic breathing, even though she was sure that air must be wheezing in and out of her. By the ominous, coiling sensation in her stomach, there must also be plagued sounds coming from deep within her, but those could not be heard over the cacophony, either.

   It was as if she was no longer part of the living world; as if she was standing there dead and cold in the throng of excited students.

   _Dead and cold._

   A wild panic was rising from the pit of her stomach, and she could feel it cramping up her chest and making her every limb go numb, threatening to force her body to collapse in a heap on the stone floor. Everything around her seemed sinister, and her by fear heightened senses amplified every stimulus registered. For every elongated second that passed, she became more and more certain that she would die here, today—any second now …

   A shriek built up force within her and was just about to fight its way out of her throat when a protective arm was laid around her slim shoulders. “Angel, are you all right?” the familiar voice of her brother asked her, a note of worry badly hidden behind the ease of youthful confidence. As if programmed, she immediately began to calm down in his warm and sheltering presence.

   She found the power to nod weakly, her throat still too clamped up to speak.

   Harry Potter gently turned her around so he could meet her gaze. “Is it another anxiety attack?” he wondered, and she felt incredibly grateful for having him. Without him, this day might very well have proven her last, for it sure felt like she would have died of fear had he not appeared when he did.

   For years now, Angel had suffered from severe anxiety attacks when finding herself in big crowds and had led a very sheltered life because of it. But inevitably, the day when she had to go to Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry to begin her education had come. Knowing that she would spend her days in an old castle filled with strangers had long been her greatest fear, and irrationally she felt certain that she would die if her essence—what was Angel—was drowned in the noises of others. Her only solace was that Harry would be residing within the same walls, and she knew that she could always depend on him whenever she needed him.

   Hands clapping and brisk footsteps _clop-clop-clop_ -ing across the stone floor, Professor Minerva McGonagall came towards them at a speed that suggested there was a fire somewhere. Even though it was Angel’s first time seeing her, she instantly knew it was McGonagall from all the stories Harry had told her over the years. “Come, don’t just stand here and block the entrance—get inside, all of you!” she prompted the assembled students and began to herd the closest groups into the Great Hall. When she was satisfied that the flow would continue to move without her guidance, she turned around again. “First-years, to me!” she then declared over the noise, and waved her arms at the nervous newcomers.

   Angel’s heart immediately began to pound painfully in her chest. The Sorting Ceremony. Walking up to the dais at the front of the hall with Professor McGonagall and standing there in front of the entire Great Hall, being scrutinised by hundreds of people while waiting for her turn with the Sorting Hat. The mere thought of it made her shiver and feel as though she would faint any second. She could not do it—it was impossible!

   “You’ll be fine,” Harry said, and gave her shoulder an encouraging squeeze. He smiled down at her, and his apparent confidence in her actually made some of the fear lift. “Think of something else and don’t look at anyone. Just fix your gaze on a point on the far wall and take deep breaths and it’ll be over faster than you know it. Okay?”

   She nodded and gave her brother a faint smile in return. Her heart sank into the bottom of her stomach when he left her side to take his seat at the Gryffindor table, though. But there was no time to call him back, because Professor McGonagall appeared at the head of the spontaneously formed line and started to direct them inside, the students behind Angel forcing her to follow lest she wanted to get trampled.

   Somehow, she made it up onto the dais without fainting. Following Harry’s advice, she stared straight ahead without focusing her gaze on any of the older youngsters below. It worked, but her cheeks were still burning a hot and humiliating red; they were all looking at her, and they were surely whispering about her, noticing how different she was from them—that there was something wrong with her. While other first-years’ names were called, this was all Angel could think about: that every single one of them would see through her poor façade and shun her.

   _Dead and cold._

   “Angel Potter!”

   She jerked involuntarily at the harsh call of her name. Her green eyes instinctively darted out over the left-most table in search of Harry. If she could lock eyes with him for just one second, everything would be fine; if she could not, she would be lost. He probably knew what was going on inside her mind at that moment, for he stood up and made it easier for her to pinpoint him. Grateful, she shot him a smile before quickly walking up to Professor McGonagall and taking her place on the waiting stool.

   As the Sorting Hat was placed on top of her raven head, she closed her eyes and just let it happen. She placed her faith in the Hat, trusting it to know where she belonged. And surely enough, a split second later it declared her a Gryffindor and she could finally leave the dais to join her brother and his friends.

   Harry was beaming at her as she slumped down in the spot he had saved for her. “Welcome home, Angel.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Hogwarts was home, indeed. Harry did not mean to imply that their house back in Surrey was any less of a home—their parents always went out of their way to make every day a happy family day—but there was just something special about Hogwarts. Harry loved roaming the labyrinthine old castle, discovering all its secrets, just like Hermione loved reading about its history. Well, when Oliver allowed her to, of course.

   No matter how many hours he spent within its cold stone walls, he would always stumble across new nooks and crannies that nobody else seemed to know about. As if he was progressively making it all his. And in a sense, that was exactly what he wished to do: His plan was to become a professor, like his mother, then work hard and eventually get promoted to Headmaster and end The Prick’s reign. (That’s what the student body secretly called him behind his back.)

   But even more important was the camaraderie and sense of family that the Gryffindors in general and his group of friends in particular shared. During the past six years, they had grown very close, and Harry considered himself lucky to have them in his life. In a way, it was sad that their time at Hogwarts was coming to an end—probably faster than any of them could anticipate—and he almost wished that they could be given the option of staying on for an extra year, just to be able to stay together a little longer.

   _I will make the most of my last year_ , Harry promised himself as he stepped out onto the Quidditch pitch. For the first time since his magical education began, he was not there for Quidditch, but for something that had nothing to do with the wizarding world. This year, the Hogwarts school board had decided to add Muggle Sports as a new extracurricular subject to further enhance the students’ knowledge and understanding of Muggles. Since Harry had already decided to go all in on his final year—and this was something he actually had a knack for—it had been an easy choice to sign up.

   “Well, if it isn’t Pestilent Potter himself,” a snobbishly drawling voice stated somewhere on his left and made Harry stop dead in his tracks.

   _No …_

What the bloody Hell was _he_ doing here?! Of all the extracurricular courses available, this was the last one he would have expected The Princess to take ...

   He forced an unbothered smile onto his face and turned towards his nemesis. “Are you lost, Malfoy?” he wondered as pleasantly as he could. “This is no place for little girls like you.”

   Draco Malfoy twitched slightly before recovering himself, which gave Harry a warm rush of satisfaction. “Oh, I am perfectly aware of my surroundings,” the blonde assured him smugly. Crossing his arms over his chest, he gave the shorter Gryffindor a quick once-over. “You, however, seem to have come to the wrong place. I can’t imagine why you’d think yourself able when it comes to activities of a more physical nature. I mean, _Quidditch_ I can understand—you can just leave everything up to your broom—but _this_? Come, Potter; you do not possess any physical advantages.”

   He seemed _way_ too pleased with himself for that line.

   Harry laughed. “If we’re talking about physical advantages, even toddlers would have a sure upper hand on you, _Princess_ ,” he could not help but taunt. That stuck-up, self-righteous git needed to be put in his place—and he just loved being the one to do it way too much to let such an excellent opportunity slip him by.

   He could see the switch flip in the Slytherin. It was a darkness coming over his silver-grey eyes; a twitch in the corner of his mouth before his lips were pulled into a snarl. Harry had time to reflect that it was like watching a cornered animal about to spring at its aggressor; then, in a split second, he registered Draco’s right hand going for his wand. With reflexes quick off the mark, he pulled out his own wand and cried out “ _Expelliarmus!_ ” just as Malfoy was forming the first half of a jinx.

   The defensive spell hit the blonde hard in the chest and sent him flying into his newly arrived entourage, knocking them over like bowling pins.

   Harry cursed under his breath. This was not a good start to the school year …

   On the ground, Malfoy was frenetically trying to disentangle himself from the jumble of cloaks and limbs while simultaneously spitting and hissing like a sodden cat. Colourful and impressively creative expletives hammered his housemates as he fought to get back up on his feet, not helped in the least by the other boys’ thrashing. That, of course, made The Princess even more furious, and the scene before him was so comical that Harry could not help but laugh loudly out of spite.

   Malfoy finally managed to stand up, indignantly brushing dirt and grass off his cloak.

   Laughing so hard that his stomach muscles were beginning to hurt, Harry put a hand on his abdomen and said, “Blimey, you nearly killed me there, Princess.”

   Oh boy, he really should not have said that.

   The Slytherin spun around towards him, his face flushed with anger and humiliation, and for a second Harry thought that he would hit him. “Think it’s funny, eh, Potter?” he demanded infuriatedly. “My father will hear about this. You’ll be lucky not to get expelled!”

   And with those words, Malfoy stalked past him, bumping into his shoulder so hard he lost his balance and almost toppled over.

   The rest of the Slytherins hurried after him in flustered discordance.

   “Bollocks!” Harry muttered to himself as he watched them go.

   This was _not_ a good start to the school year! First day of class and he had already managed to piss off the Headmaster’s son. There was no doubt the blonde would run to his father and demand Harry’s immediate dismissal from Hogwarts, self-righteous prat as he was. It would not be the first time; Princess Malfoy always went tattling to his father about everything, so maybe Harry need not feel so worried. Still, all men had their limits and eventually reached a point where they simply would not take any more. Considering the kind of person The Prick was, there was only a matter of time before Harry had crossed one too many lines—and to be expelled when he had but one year left …

   To top it off, Professor Riddle had chosen football for the first lesson, a sport that Harry had always been fairly good at, and he suddenly found himself dominating the game. With students having been sorted into teams at random, Malfoy had wound up on the opposing team and declared—loud enough for everyone to hear—that he would destroy Harry. Not surprisingly, he had to eat those words mere minutes into the game; being brought up in a pureblood family completely secluded from the world meant never having encountered Muggle sports. Thinking that he was superior to everyone else on that field, the blonde evidently believed that he would be a natural at everything, whereas everyone else would fail miserably.

   Therefore, Malfoy spent the first half of the training match running back and forth, trying to chase the ball, and missing every time he tried to kick it. He looked more and more flustered for every minute that passed, and the other students were laughing at him and mocking him. Harry was careful not to join in—he had no desire to give Malfoy yet another reason to want him expelled—and did his best to stay far away from the blonde.

   However, the plan came to naught when Neville Longbottom, on Harry’s team, accidentally kicked the ball in the wrong direction and sent it spinning off towards the right-hand side-line at breakneck speed. Not wishing to hand possession over to the opposing team and give them a throw-in, Harry shot off after it—only he did not notice that Malfoy was coming at the ball from the opposite direction. His vision completely focused on the ball, his mind set on pushing his legs to their limit, he therefore did not see the blonde and crashed right into him with an alarming _smash_ that sent them flying out from each other, both hitting the ground hard.

   At first, the only thing Harry registered was that the ball made it out of the field. “Shite!”

   Then came the pain.

   _Then_ came the wrath of Draco Malfoy.

   The blonde was over him before he had even had time to assess all his scrapes and aches, ruthlessly pulling him up on his feet by the collar of his T-shirt, giving Harry the feeling of being strangled half-arsedly. The Slytherin’s angry, flushed face was suddenly inches away from his own, and spit was flying out of his snarl of a mouth with every word he growled. “How dare you ram me, _Potter_?! Do you have _any_ working brain cell in that thick head of yours? I am the law here, and once my father hears about this you will be thrown out of here on your sorry little bugger arse quicker than you can stick your prick in that twat Weasel of yours!”

   Harry instinctively pulled away from the blonde’s onslaught, his head filling with insane images of the skin and flesh of his face being peeled off by the intense, incensed roaring of his nemesis.

   People around them were starting to jeer and snigger at the display, exchanging ridiculing comments amongst themselves, and Malfoy instantly let go of Harry and reeled on them. “You think this is funny, do you?” he demanded, advancing on the closest group, which immediately backed away in fright. “I can have all of you expelled with a snap of my fingers!”

   “Now, now, Mr. Malfoy,” Professor Riddle was saying, having just reached them from across the field where he had set up his referee post. He held his arms straight out on both sides in a disarming, yet authoritative gesture, placing himself between the blonde and the objects of his fuming anger. “People get tackled in football on occasion—it is nothing to get upset about. And you lot,” he added, turned to the laughing students, “will do well not to tease your classmates on my watch. This is a friendly field.”

   Then the professor turned to Harry and asked, “Okay there, Harry?”

   The raven-haired boy felt his cheeks burning with embarrassment. “Yes, sir,” he mumbled, turning his gaze away.

   He wished his cousin would not call him by his first name in class. Sure, everyone knew they were related, but Harry still did not feel comfortable with getting such a familial treatment from a teacher. It felt like he was the teacher’s pet or something, and that thought really made him want to puke. It was also something that other students liked to tease him for, being his cousin’s ‘little favourite’ …

   Indignant and humiliated, Malfoy spat out a “Fuck this!” and stormed off towards the exit, clearly ditching the second half of the game. When he had gone halfway, he turned back as if in afterthought, and called out to Harry: “I’ll have your bloody head on a plate for this, Potter. _Literally_ bloody.”

   And then he left the Quidditch pitch.

   “Great,” Harry muttered to himself.

   When he later entered the Gryffindor common room through the portrait hole, it was with a heavy heart and a pounding headache. He had not been able to concentrate during the rest of the training game because of Malfoy’s threats, and with their star player suddenly mentally incapacitated, his team had wound up losing on top of everything else. More than anything, he just wanted to crawl into his bed and pull the curtains closed around him and sulk for the rest of the evening, but he knew that it would be moot.

   “Harry, my dear!” Ron called out to him from one of the comfy sofas. He rose gracefully to meet his friend halfway and waved his long, scarlet scarf in greeting.

   Harry noticed that the other lad was in full garb already, which could only mean one thing: Ronald Weasley was on the prowl.

   Ever since fourth year, Ron had favoured flamboyant clothing and always stripped off the conservative school uniform as soon as the day was over—in order to be ‘free,’ as he put it. Soon it became obvious, though, that his outfits became even gaudier on the evenings that he had decided to go out hunting for a new bed mate. This time, he was wearing softly flowing dress robes in midnight blue, cerulean, and teal with innumerable little celestial details—stars, galaxies, moons in all possible stages—that glittered in shiny silver and gold and even _moved_ across the fabric.

   “Big date?” he asked the redhead, trying to feign interest.

   Ron grinned mischievously and played with his scarf in mock-innocence. “Maybeee,” he said coquettishly. But then his features became serious and slightly worried as he noticed Harry’s defeated air. “Something wrong, honey?”

   Harry let out a long, pained sigh and slumped into the nearest armchair. “I think I’m really done for this time, Ron.”

   He tiredly rubbed at his eyes with the fingers of his right hand. _I should really have gone to the Hospital Wing to get something for my head first_ , he thought grimly, hardly registering when Ron sat down in the chair next to his.

   “Did something happen during Muggle Sports?” he wondered, and then gasped, his hand flying up to cover his mouth dramatically. “Did you get hit by one of those nasty-looking metal frames with the giant hairnet attached to them? They looked really mean, they did!”

   Harry would have chuckled at him if he was not so miserable. “Those are goal posts, Ron, and they don’t move in Muggle sports,” he informed his friend. “No, nothing like that, but I think I might have pissed off The Princess one too many times …”

   “Ooooh …”

   Understanding dawned on the redhead.

   Harry told him what had happened, scowling with worry when he imagined what The Prick would do to him. “I’m telling you, he’ll be calling me up to his office any minute now,” he said with certainty.

   “You don’t know that,” Ron protested, but it was plain to read on his face that he was unable to convince even himself of that. He would not let that stop him from reassuring his mate, though. “It’ll probably be fine; The Prick hasn’t expelled you yet, has he? And how many times have you and Malfoy been at each other’s throats now? A million? Hell, he’s probably so fed up with his bloody son always running to him with childish accusations that he doesn’t even listen anymore! Who knows, maybe Malfoy didn’t even go to his father this time?”

   Harry appreciated Ron’s efforts, but the cold, nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach just would not go away. He just _knew_ that this was the last straw and that something terrible was going to happen. And what could be more terrible than getting expelled from Hogwarts and being denied one’s future in the wizarding world? And right when Angel had come to school, too …

   She needed him, and he would not be there to support her.

   Speaking of which …

   “Where’s Angel?” he asked Ron, scanning the common room.

   “Hermione took her and Oliver down to the lake before dinner,” Ron replied, leaning back in the chair and crossing his legs effeminately.

   Harry felt relief flowing into him at that. “That’s good,” he murmured, finally feeling like he could relax a bit.

   A loud, almost metallic _peeeep_ could suddenly be heard, directly followed by a message delivered over the magical intercom system.

   _Mr. Harry Potter is to report to the Headmaster’s office immediately._

   Harry moaned in exasperation and forced himself up from the armchair. “Here we go …”

   Ron’s face had gone completely white. He gave him a look that made Harry feel as if his friend expected him to be returned in a coffin.

   _Might as well be_ , he thought glumly as he left the common room and made his way towards the third-floor gargoyle that would take him up to The Prick’s office. As usual, a random Slytherin first-year had been stationed in front of it, tasked with safekeeping the password of the day.

   Harry had always thought it was overkill to change the password every day, and he felt bad for the scared little girl, who glared up at him with wide eyes.

   “Erm … Harry Potter—I have an … appointment with the Headmaster,” he said uncertainly.

   At first, the girl just stared at him, but then she seemed to come back to herself and remember her present duties. She checked the inside of her right forearm, where she had a list of approved visitors magically inked onto her pale skin. As Harry understood it, Headmaster Malfoy used a spell that automatically added the names of the people he wanted to see onto the student’s skin and then erased them once the visitor had left.

   After confirming that Harry indeed was expected, the girl turned around and whispered the password into the gargoyle’s ear, whereupon it stepped aside and revealed the revolving staircase beyond.

   Awkwardly thanking the girl, he stepped onto the topmost stair and allowed himself to be brought up through the tower.

   The door to the office opened for him when he reached the top, and he could see The Prick sitting in there behind his grand, ridiculously decadent desk. Taking a deep breath to steel himself, he walked straight up to it, the door slamming shut behind him on its own.

   “You wished to see me, sir?” he said, forcing his voice to remain calm and polite.

   Headmaster Lucius Malfoy demonstratively ignored him and continued to scribble on the piece of parchment in front of him for a minute before finally setting his quill aside and looking up at Harry. “Ah, Mr. Potter,” he drawled, as if he had not at all called the boy there just now. “Please, do take a seat.”

   Harry reluctantly sat down in the visitor’s chair.

   He really tried to not squirm in his seat, but those ice-cold, judgmental grey eyes made invisible beetles run pell-mell over his skin and a hard lump form in his stomach. They held his gaze for so long that he wondered if time had somehow stopped. Why was he staring at him like that?

   Harry cleared his throat uncomfortably.

   A mirthless smirk came to the older man’s thin lips. “I hear you have assaulted my son, Mr. Potter,” he finally said.

   Harry blinked sheepishly at him. “Assau—? No, that is not what happened, Malfoy was—”

   “Spare me the sob story, Mr. Potter. I have already received an extensive report from Draco. And let me say, I am very disappointed … Attacking a fellow student like that? Really, young man, what were you hoping to gain?”

   Feeling the heat of anger rising from deep within him and gradually spreading throughout his entire body with every beat of his heart, Harry clenched his hands around the armrests of his chair and fought to control himself. “I don’t mean to be rude, sir, but if we could just get on with it so I can go pack my trunk, I would greatly appreciate it,” he muttered between tightly gritted teeth.

   The Prick raised an eyebrow at that. “Pack your trunk?”

   Harry was losing his patience. “Yeah, since you’re obviously going to expel me there’s no need to drag it out, now is there?”

   To his surprise, the Headmaster began to laugh patronisingly at him.

   The raven-haired boy glared at him incredulously.

   “Expel you?” The Prick now said, leaning back in his high-backed chair and studying Harry with a disturbingly amused expression on his pale face. “Oh, but I am not going to expel you, Mr. Potter.”

   Harry blinked. “You’re not?”

   “No, no, no! That wouldn’t be fair, now would it? You just starting your final year and all. However … raising your wand against another student is strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, so you _will_ be given a suitable punishment to … serve,” the Headmaster finished, and there was an odd glint in his eyes and a brief twitch at the corners of his mouth when he said it.

   Harry frowned.

   That feeling of something bad looming over him, waiting for the right moment to strike, once again made itself known.

   He had a feeling that it was not detention The Prick was referring to.

   But really, what choice did he have? If it was a question of accepting a punishment to placate the sodding Malfoys or getting expelled, the choice seemed pretty clear. Unfair, but clear.

   “Fine,” he muttered in resignation.

   A self-satisfied sneer made The Prick look even more arrogant than usual. “Perfect,” he drawled before ultimately dropping the bomb: “Then as of tomorrow morning, you will function as my son’s personal servant until further notice.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As you have probably noticed, a lot of things are different from canon in this story. That may not be everyone's cup of tea, but I am having a lot of fun writing this so I have a feeling it's going to be a really long one! ;)


	2. You Serve Me Now, Potter

 

The silence in the office was stifling and oppressive, as if all the air had been sucked out of the room and left a painfully soundless vacuum behind. The world around him seemed to have come to a complete standstill. Everything that he had thought to know about life at Hogwarts and about all the possible things that could occur within the castle walls flew out the window, and his perception was forcibly skewed until he no longer could feel the ground under his feet. His heart was in his stomach.

   Personal servant? To _Draco Malfoy_?

   For a long time, Harry was speechless, effectively having been rendered mute and immobile by the Headmaster’s unexpected verdict. He was to service that self-righteous, pompous _git_ like some bloody butler?! Appalled at the mere thought, he stared at the white-blonde man across the desk with his mouth half-agape and his eyes shocked wide open. As the daze lifted, however, the hot temper and senseless defiance of authority that he had inherited from his father and was so famous for reared its ugly head and snapped at the Headmaster with no regard for his position.

   “That is not fair!” he cried out, unconsciously shooting forward in his chair. His cheeks were starting to burn with indignation and his pulse quickened noticeably, making itself known in his temples and in his jugular. “I haven’t done anything bad enough to justify this—this— _ludicrousness!_ It’s not even an approved form of punishment!”

   At this, The Prick smirked self-satisfactorily; patronising him. “You forget this is my school, Mr. Potter,” he drawled superciliously. “ _I_ decide what is approved or not.”

   Harry’s heart was beating furiously in his chest now, pounding against his ribcage with what felt like a blunt, red-hot sledgehammer. “But you can’t just go around making students into slaves! If you have to punish me, give me detention for the rest of the term—or the rest of the year, even!”

   If he had thought that Lucius Malfoy, long-time arch-rival to James Potter, would happily jump on the opportunity to put his nemesis’ son in detention for the duration of the year, he had been sorely wrong. The Headmaster’s face was an unreadable mask, and there was not even a minuscule quirking of the mouth or creasing of the brow to disclose what he was thinking. He merely sat there, his steely, grey eyes fixated on Harry’s, remaining quiet for so long that Harry thought he was not going to say anything. “As tempting as your offer is, Mr. Potter, my decision still stands,” he finally imparted, but his voice bore witness to the fact that he did not find it the least bit tempting.

   Feeling desperate now, Harry grasped for anything that might get him out of playing servant to the one person he wished to avoid at any cost, anything at all that would be degrading enough to work as an accepted substitute. “I’ll do anything you ask me to—clean the toilets, scrub the floor in the Entrance Hall with a toothbrush in front of everyone, take over the house elves’ duties— _anything_ except that!” he practically begged, hating himself for the frantic, mortifying, pleading tone in his own voice. “Hell, I’ll do detention for the entire school year if that’s what it takes!”

   To his utter humiliation, his voice broke slightly at the end due to the dread that was swiftly rising within him. He could see that The Prick would not be swayed, no matter what Harry said or did, and the horrible reality of his predicament was finally starting to set in.

   He was going to have to tend to Draco Malfoy’s every whim. _Indefinitely._

   And surely, here came the final verdict now: “You will do as you are told, Potter, or you will find yourself expelled from Hogwarts,” Headmaster Malfoy said with obvious finality that broached no further objections. “It will do you some good—teach you humility. After all, you two will need to learn to get along eventually.”

   With those unexpected and somewhat cryptic words, Harry was effectively dismissed and sent on his way back to Gryffindor Tower.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco was restlessly and angrily pacing the same open stretch of the Slytherin common room, anxiously awaiting the word of Potter’s expulsion. Surely this time the Gryffindor had gone too far and his father had to see that it was impossible for him to stay on any longer. Attacking a fellow student was a very serious offense and happened to be the perfect ticket for Draco to get rid of his archenemy, once and for all. Because attacking the Headmaster’s own son—even if it was just by using a defensive spell—was clearly overstepping and begging for dismissal.

   “That bloody prat had better know exactly what he’s done,” he muttered to himself, still fuming over what had passed down on the Quidditch pitch that afternoon. He paced for a few more turns, then temporarily stopped in front of his friends, who were sitting comfortably in the most secluded corner of the common room. Looking down at them with murder in his eyes, he hissed: “That Potter needs to learn that you don’t fuck with a Malfoy!”

   Blaise Zabini and Gregory Goyle were leaning back against opposite corners of a luxurious, deep-emerald green sofa, both looking bored and fed up with their classmate’s ceaseless ranting. They had just come back from their first Ghoul Studies lesson and had not even had time to change out of their school robes before Draco had seized them and forced them to listen to his complaints.

   “Sit down, Malfoy,” Blaise was now entreating exhaustedly.

   But Draco had already taken up his fevered to-and-fro again. It was impossible to stay still for more than a few seconds at a time; his entire body was trembling with the need to be in motion, probably because of all the adrenaline that was coursing through his system. “I’ll sit down when I know Potter’s on the train back to London,” he spat out vehemently.

   Blaise groaned in exasperation and raised a hand to rub his forehead, apparently experiencing some sort of headache.

   On the dark-skinned boy’s right, Miles Bletchley spoke up in a calm, matter-of-fact tone that was so characteristic for him. “He won’t get expelled any faster just because you’re running a marathon in place. Take it easy and just breathe out, Draco—he’ll be gone before you know it.”

   Draco actually felt somewhat grateful toward his friend for that reassurance. He would never admit to it aloud, though. Instead, he snorted haughtily and was just about to take a seat in between Goyle and Zabini when a regal-looking, brown-and-white owl swooped down into the room from a hole that was placed high on one of the walls and came flying towards him. He immediately recognised it as the Malfoy family owl, and his heart made a loop of excitement in his chest. It was finally here!

   The owl promptly dropped a tightly rolled, small piece of parchment in his turned up hands and then swooped off again. Unable to wait another second, Draco frantically tore it open and began to read.

 

_Draco,_

_Harry Potter has hereby been assigned to you_  
_as your personal servant, to do with as you wish._  
_I know you expected him to be expelled, but I do_  
_believe that this is the better option. This will_  
_remain in effect until we can both agree that he has  
_ _learnt his lesson._

_Lucius Malfoy._

 

Draco stared down at the short note in his hands, fury welling up from a pit inside of him so deep that it seemed to have no bottom, no limit. He did not even noticed that his entire body started shaking violently with a wrath that was soon to boil over, or that his grip on the parchment was so  hard it was almost crumbling. _Servant?!_ Potter was getting away with his crimes against the most powerful pure-blood heir in the wizarding world and only had to bloody run some errands to atone for it?! Was this some sort of sick joke?

   He could feel the right corner of his mouth twitching ominously, and soon his right eye was matching its irregular rhythm. A weird, dull rumbling could be heard over the angry beating of his heart and the elevated pulse surging in his ears. It took him a good while to realise that it was coming from deep within his own throat—and that it was steadily rising in volume.

   “Er, Drake—are you all right?” Blaise wondered uncertainly in a low, wary voice, most probably trying to assess whether this was one of those times when it was prudent to go hide in a broom closet somewhere. It was no secret that Draco’s temper could flare up at any time and that it was better to flee rather than stay and fight when an outburst was imminent.

   “How _dare_ he refuse me!?” the blonde now thundered, the growl that had been stuck in his throat finally finding release and reverberating through the room as he dropped the hated missive on the floor. His friend’s earlier reassurance made itself known again by mocking him with a true Slytherin sneer. _He’ll be gone before you know it._ Yes, apparently! That was certainly it! “He’ll be expelled for sure, you said—he’ll be gone before I know it, you said. Oh, yes, that was a given for sure, ‘cause now I’ll have to have him following me around all bloody day long!”

   He noticed that Blaise and Goyle were exchanging a bewildered look, but he did not pay them any mind. Everything was secondary to his torment!

   Miles leant down and picked up the parchment that Draco had dropped. Without his indifferent demeanour wavering for a second, he read it through and gave his report to the others: “Old Lucius has decided to have Potter serve Draco like a house elf.”

   Blaise made a noise that made it sound like he was choking on his own tongue. “A _house elf_?” he spluttered, seemingly torn between incredulity and mirth. “ _Potter?!_ ”

   “That’s what it says,” Miles said with a nonchalant shrug, then crumpled up the message and threw it over to Blaise.

   Draco rounded on Miles. “How can you be so bloody calm about it?” he demanded. “Pestilent Potter has just been dubbed my shadow _in-fucking-definitely_ , and all you do is sit there and look bored?! You’re supposed to be my friend, so bloody _think of something_!”

   Blaise, who had just read Malfoy senior’s letter, looked up at him with excitedly glowing eyes. “Draco, you’re not reading this right!” he exclaimed. “This is bloody brilliant! Your old man has just made Potter your private slave _to do with as you wish_ —you can make him do all sorts of nasty things and humiliate him in front of the entire school, and he can’t say anything against it! He’ll have to obey and do _everything_ you tell him to. This is a goldmine!”

   Draco’s white-blond brows were slowly pulled together in a thoughtful frown. A slave, eh? His quick brain instantly began to paint vivid images of what he might force Potter to do for him … of how he would make that insufferable prat degrade himself in front of his housemates and the rest of the student body … And Draco would have free reign? Nobody could step in and interfere with his treatment of his ‘servant?’ Not even the teachers?

   A malicious grin was slowly taking form on his lips. “Maybe this won’t be so bad, anyway …”

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Harry came back up to the dormitories, he was so furious that he tried to fling the portrait open when the Fat Lady was too slow for his liking. Seeing red and not caring if anyone was in his way, he just stomped directly into the common room and did not notice that he made a group of his friends sitting around the fireplace jump at his sudden, loud arrival.

   “That bloody prick has really done it now!” he growled, his hands dangerously tightly fisted at his sides and his body shaking with indignation. “Who the fuck does he think he is?! Telling me I have to bloody serve that sorry sod of a snake … I should fucking kill him!”

   He was about to head past the still unnoticed group by the fireplace and stomp straight up to his dorm to sulk in bed when Hermione rose from the couch and called out to him.

   “Harry! What’s wrong?”

   Starting at her voice, he stopped dead in his tracks and spun around towards it.

   She was standing at attention, her shoulders slightly drawn up in worried anticipation of the trouble that had befallen her best friend. Her face was a spot-on representation of concern; her eyes were dark and intent on him, her forehead creased by a deep frown, and her mouth slightly open, as if she was about to say something but did not quite know how to frame it. And once he had spotted Hermione, he noticed that there were several other people scattered around her. Neville was in an armchair directly in front of him and Cedric Diggory, their mutual dorm mate, was casually standing by the fire, albeit a bit stiffly now that Harry had turned up crackling with fury. And on the couch next to Hermione was …

   Angel.

   He immediately felt a sting of guilt at letting her see him like this, during one of his lowest moments. She of course knew of his hot temper, even if he had never directed it at her, but it still mortified him every time his innocent little sister witnessed this side of him.

   “Harry?” Hermione inquired again, more cautiously this time.

   She was probably thinking that his silence was just the calm before the storm.

   He turned to look at her. “Hey,” he managed to mutter in an almost socially acceptable tone.

   She seemed to relax a bit at that and sat back down, picking Oliver back up and placing him on her lap. She absentmindedly stamped her left foot repeatedly to make him rock up and down, since that always soothed him and kept him quiet. “Harry, tell me what’s wrong,” she then prompted in her inherent motherly voice.

   Seeing Oliver made Harry feel even more ashamed at storming in like that without a single thought to whom or what he was disturbing. He hesitated. It would be bad enough of him to spill the beans in front of Angel, but to also do so in front of Hermione’s infant son …

   Like a saviour coming to his rescue, Cedric spoke up to encourage him along. “Ron said you were sent to the Headmaster’s office over some dispute with Malfoy.”

   Hermione gasped in horror. “Oh no, you’re not expelled, are you?!”

   Harry felt the anger steadily seeping back into him. “It’s much worse than that,” he told them bitterly.

   Hermione frowned in perplexity, as if she could not wrap her head around the notion that something could be worse than expulsion.

   Sighing in resignation, he began to recount what had transpired in The Prick’s office and what had landed him there in the first place. The further he got in his retelling, the hotter his anger burnt and soon he was speaking so forcefully that spit was flying out of his mouth with every third or fourth word. “And now I have to call on him like some bloody butler!” he finished, gesturing wildly in his growing rage.

   During his story, his friends had become increasingly piqued at the Headmaster’s bizarre choice of disciplinary action, but Neville temporarily interrupted their reactions. “What’s a butler?” he wondered, confused.

   “It’s a Muggle profession,” Hermione automatically explained, “a very old one, at that. It’s basically a form of servant, but—”

   “Hermione!” Harry cut in, beside himself with anger and not patient enough to listen to one of her lengthy lectures. “That is not important right now.”

   “Right. Sorry.”

   Harry let out a pained, outdrawn groan and raised his hands to his temples in a vain effort to massage away his splitting headache. “How am I going to be able to serve that bloody git? He’s sure to take every opportunity to make an arse out of me—and I’m just supposed to take it and say, ‘Yes, sir—sorry, sir’?”

   “That is not fair,” Cedric said heatedly, his great sense of justice and impartiality stoked by the maltreatment of his classmate. “Never in the history of Hogwarts has servitude been used as a punishment, and I don’t think the school board would take too kindly to it.”

   His sentiment was clear: take it to the big guys.

   But Harry just scoffed. “And you don’t think they’d just nod and tell him ‘good job on finding such creative ways to teach the children a lesson?’ Hell, he owns the entire school _and_ the board!” he snapped, only marginally aware that Cedric jerked and then looked remorseful.

   Hermione immediately stepped in to defuse the situation. “He didn’t mean anything by it, Harry, and you can hardly blame him for wanting to help,” she said soberly, but with that same motherly note as before. “We _all_ want to help. I’ll put together a petition for the school board—if enough people sign it they’ll have to listen.”

   Somehow he doubted that, but he bit back the acidic retort that was teetering on his tongue.

   “I’m sure it will be fine, Harry,” Hermione continued, but she did not quite sound convinced of the truth in her own words.

   “Yeah,” Neville instantly agreed, “Hermione’s grandfather is still on the school board—I bet he can help you.”

   At that, Hermione made a wry face that somehow managed to be both a grimace and a shamed apology at the same time. “I’m not so sure that’s a good idea …”

   As it dawned on them all that her grandfather was more demented than discerning these days, they were inclined to agree on her assessment.

   It was awkwardly quiet for a few long seconds before Neville seemed to be unable to stand it any longer, for he forced a cheery smile and said, “I bet it won’t last that long.”

   Harry bristled. “‘Won’t last that long?’ Yeah, right! This is Malfoy we’re talking about! He’ll be having so much fun with me he’ll never let his father lift the punishment!” He let out a long, mournful groan. “I’m cursed!”

   He jumped a little when a set of small, slender arms suddenly hugged him around the middle. When he looked down he saw that Angel had got up from the couch and walked up to him to comfort him, all without him noticing. Only two inches short of being a foot taller than her, it once again hit him just how small she was. Well, not like being 5’5” made _him_ tall, exactly …

   Struck numb by his little sister’s consideration, he slowly lifted his hands to reciprocate the hug.

   She looked up at him and gave him one of those calm, reassuring smiles that always mollified him. Her green eyes told him that everything was going to be all right; the world was not going to stop turning just because he had landed himself an unpleasant job. It would not last forever, they assured him, and it would not kill him, either.

   Despite himself, Harry found himself smiling back at her. “Thank you, Angel. I don’t know how you do it, but I’m glad all the same.” He gave her a more proper hug. “Sorry I haven’t been around today,” he then said, feeling a bit ashamed at leaving her all alone for her first day at school.

   “Don’t worry about it, Harry—I’ve been fine,” she said. “There’s a girl in my dorm that’s really nice, and she sat with me during our lessons today.”

   That made him feel even more relieved and soothed. He had been so worried about her not finding anyone to befriend and be forced to try and navigate the huge castle all on her own, sitting by herself in class and not having a single friendly soul to associate with. “Happy to hear it,” he therefore murmured. Then he let go of her and, in a much improved mood, announced that he was taking an early night. This whole servant business had exhausted him.

   He took the stairs two at a time and soon entered his dorm room, which was dark except for a single torch that was burning on the wall by Ron’s bed on the left-hand side. Harry’s eyes were naturally drawn towards the light source, as if they were moths, and he instantly regretted looking over there the moment he registered what was going on.

   Ron was lying back against his pillows with his hands behind his head, currently getting buggered by a dark-haired, skinny bloke that Harry sadly recognised as being a shy 6th-year Hufflepuff that was a substitute Chaser on their Quidditch team. What was even worse was that they had not bothered to cover themselves with Ron’s duvet, so Harry could see _everything_ , and he just knew that he would be having nightmares about dangling bollocks for a month.

   He let out a scandalised cry and whipped around, his hands unconsciously going up to his poor, damaged eyes. “Ron, what the Hell?!”

   The Hufflepuff boy yelped when they were found out and a frantic rustling of sheets followed, probably as he scrambled to cover himself up.

   But Ron of course was not the least bit embarrassed. Harry could practically see his friend’s proud grin as he said, “What can I say—my charm knows no bounds!”

   Harry gagged loudly for Ron’s benefit; the ginger was _way_ too pleased with himself!

   A muffled, stuttered Dressing Charm was uttered somewhere behind him and the Hufflepuff fled the room in a blind panic, the door slamming shut behind him.

   “Aww!” Ron exclaimed in exasperated disappointment. “Harry, you made my toy run away!”

   Against better judgment, Harry dared a glance over at his roommate. _Yep, still naked._ Swiftly turned back around, his cheeks burning a humiliated scarlet. “You should have thought about that before you neglected your Silencing Spells and bed curtains, mate,” he muttered reproachfully while walking over to his own bed. Without another word, he clambered in and closed his own curtains around him, sinking down into the soft pillow and hiding himself under the quilt.

   This had not been a good day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The following morning, Harry reluctantly dragged himself out of bed when his charmed alarm reminded him that he had duties to perform. Groaning miserably, he rubbed his tired eyes, trying to force himself awake. He had hardly got any sleep at all and would much rather burrow deep under the duvet and not come out for a day or two. But that was of course impossible; he had to be down in the dungeons in good time to be on hand when Malfoy braved the day.

   Grabbing his school robes, he wobbled out to the showers. At least the hot water cleared his hazy head somewhat. It did nothing to dispel the bone-deep cold that was being pumped through his body, though. He felt as if his blood had been replaced with ice water and a deathly dread was vibrating through his nervous system. It was a new and mystifying sensation and he did not know what to make of it.

   Scowling ponderingly, he returned to the dorm, absentmindedly tying the crimson-and-gold tie around his neck. Neville and Cedric, both early risers, were just preparing to head for the showers themselves when he went up to his trunk and started pulling out textbooks and various other school supplies at random, shoving them into his bag without even looking at them.

   “Morning, Harry,” Neville greeted with a small smile of sympathy.

   “Morning,” Harry replied automatically as he straightened up and slung the bag over his shoulder. “Sorry, I can’t stick around—don’t wanna get hexed on the first day, do I?” Regardless of how bizarre and absolutely inconceivable this whole servant business was, he had decided to grin and bear it. He would do whatever it took to keep his place at Hogwarts. For Angel. For his parents. For his _future_.

   “Good luck, mate,” Cedric said, laying a supportive hand on his shoulder. His grey eyes twinkled reassuringly as he smiled down at Harry. “It’ll all work out in the end, you’ll see.”

   _Easy for him to say_ , Harry thought irritably, but said nothing. Instead, he nodded appreciatively at his mates and left the dorm.

   The walk down to the dungeons felt like a too short instant and an eternity at the same time. He did not meet anyone, which he counted himself lucky for. He really did not wish to answer the trivial small-talk question about where he was headed that early in the morning, which was sure to come if anyone saw him hurrying through the draughty castle. It was with a subdued sense of relief that he reached the corridor that held the hidden entrance to the Slytherin Dungeon at a few minutes to seven. He had made it.

   He had never actually been inside the Slytherin common room and had not watched anyone exiting or entering it for a few years now, so he did not quite remember exactly where the concealed passage lay. Therefore, he stood awkwardly waiting in the middle of the corridor, fidgeting with the cuff of his robes and repeatedly adjusting the bag on his shoulder. There was a gaping hole in his stomach that seemed to suck all positive feelings in, as if a Dementor had taken up residence deep within him. This could never end well. Bugger what Cedric had said about everything working out; this was the beginning of the end for him—he could just _feel_ it.

   Five minutes past seven, people were starting to file out of the common area on their way to breakfast. Apparently, the entrance was a bit further down, near the end of the corridor, so Harry moved up closer and wound up standing at attention directly across from the passage. The Slytherins that passed him stared at him unabashedly and whispered to each other, many of them sniggering and regarding him with snobbish, spiteful amusement. He tried not to be bothered by it, but his cheeks still began to burn with humiliation.

   So, word had already got around, eh?

   He guessed he should not be surprised; Malfoy had a very big mouth that perfectly accentuated the size of his inflated head.

   At a quarter past seven, The Princess himself finally deigned to exit the common room and it immediately became apparent that he was disgustingly pleased with his new position. A smug sneer was on his flawless, pale face and his silver-grey eyes superciliously looked down on Harry. The Slytherin’s whole posture signalled ‘superior’ and ‘untouchable.’

   Harry wanted to gag.

   “Well, if it isn’t my new slave,” Malfoy drawled in mock affability.

   An assortment of Malfoy’s entourage had exited the Slytherin Dungeon behind him and were now snickering appreciatively. Harry noted that, in addition to The Princess, he would now also have to deal with Vincent Crabbe, Theodore Nott, Pansy Parkinson, and—yes, there at the very back of the group was his own cousin, Dudley Dursley. When his eyes fell on the podgy boy, he shot Harry a warning look. That was not necessary, of course; Harry was quite aware of the fact that his cousin wanted to keep their relation to each other a secret while at school.

   “I am pleased to see that you’re so punctual, Potter,” the blonde continued, smirking. “Now, take my bag and be careful to stay exactly three steps behind me.”

   He dropped his school bag in Harry’s arms before any objections could be made. But instead of telling the blonde to sod off, Harry simply swung the bag up on his free shoulder and made to follow the Slytherin group.

   However, Malfoy was not moving. Wondering silently what the holdup was, Harry puzzled over the cold, expectant expression on his nemesis’ face.

   Crossing his arms over his chest, Malfoy asked, “Aren’t you forgetting something, slave?”

   Harry frowned. Forgetting something? “Like what?” he wondered, perhaps a tad too sharply.

   The right corner of Malfoy’s mouth twitched. “When I address you, I expect you to show me the respect I am due and behave as any servant would—which means acknowledging my commands. Failing to do so will not reflect well upon you when I evaluate your efforts to atone for your attack on my person, and I should think you want me to give my father a positive report by the end of this little … experiment.”

   Harry jerked as if The Princess had just slapped him. He glared at him incredulously, a very colourful retort hanging from the tip of his tongue, but in the last second he was able to restrain himself. “Yes, sir,” was all he squeezed out.

   Malfoy stuck out his chin in a very disdainful manner. “Simply calling me ‘sir’ will not do,” he informed the raven-haired boy importantly. “While you are serving as my slave, you will call me ‘Master,’ Potter.”

   Harry’s chin dropped. “Ex _cuse_ me?! I will _not_ call you bloody ‘Master!’”

   “You are correct—you will not call me ‘Bloody Master,’ but you _will_ call me ‘Master’ if you know what’s good for you. Otherwise I will just go to my father and let him know that you have decided not to repent and he will have you sent home on the train in no time.”

   Mouth opening and closing like a fish, Harry tried to push through the haze of righteous anger that was currently blurring his vision and clouding his mind so he could think of what he should do. The blonde had basically provided him with two options: he could either submit completely, conceding his dignity and accepting Malfoy as his superior, or he could say goodbye to his education.

   Ultimately, he sighed in reluctant resignation and said, “Yes, _Master._ ”

   Apparently pleased with his servant’s concession, the blonde declared that he would go have his breakfast now. Of course, Harry was expected to tend to his every need and be on constant standby. Since it was outrageous to even _think_ about a Gryffindor sharing a table with the noble Slytherins, he would eat together with his fellow riffraff, but should Malfoy need him he was to immediately come to his side.

   So, when they entered the Great Hall, Harry followed a few steps behind The Princess as he strode up to the Slytherin table on the far left to take his usual seat in the middle, with the wall to his back. A few people, who had looked up as they arrived, stared in stunned silence when they saw Harry with the Headmaster’s son. Once their initial shock had lifted, they quickly alerted their table companions and soon the entire hall was buzzing with gossip, assumptions, and speculations.

   Harry did his best to ignore it and focused on the task at hand instead. When the blonde had reached his seat of choice, Harry stood at the ready on his right. “What would you like for breakfast, Master?” he whispered so that people outside of their group would not hear him degrading himself like that.

   Malfoy feigned a surprised expression and looked around himself as if searching for something. “Did someone hear something?” he wondered. “I could swear I just heard something.”

   Oh, of course he was going to play _that_ game …

   Swallowing his dignity, Harry repeated himself, louder this time. The Slytherins within hearing range laughed, but at least it did not seem to carry to the Ravenclaw table.

   Malfoy pretended to give a start, as if he only now noticed that Harry was speaking to him. “Ah, my servant wishes to know what I would like to eat!” he exclaimed much more loudly than necessary, and made Harry wince. “I shall take my usual cup of tea—Darjeeling, please—and a bowl of oatmeal with two ounces of milk and an assortment of fresh berries on top. No strawberries; I do not care for them.”

   Harry nodded. Okay, he could do this—it was not so bad, really. “Right away, Master,” he said, and proceeded to pour the tea into a clean cup. He neatly placed a teaspoon on the saucer and then began to fill a bowl with porridge.

   “Potter, _what_ is this?” The Princess suddenly demanded, glaring down into the teacup.

   Blinking, Harry looked down at it, not understanding what was wrong with it. “It’s your tea, Master.”

   “Yes, I can bloody well see that it is my tea, thank you very much! Do you expect me to drink it like this?!”

   More blinking. “Er … yes?”

   Malfoy snorted. “You are more hopeless than I could have ever imagined. You have neglected the cinnamon, you troll.”

   “Cinnamon?”

   “Yes, you are supposed to add half a teaspoon of cinnamon and stir exactly fifteen times counter-clockwise at the rate of one stir per two seconds. Honestly, don’t you know anything, Potter?”

   _How am I supposed to know how you take your tea unless you bloody tell me, git?_ Harry thought waspishly, but what he said was: “No, Master, apparently not. I’ll add the cinnamon right away.”

   When he had finally been dismissed to his own table on the far right, his temples were starting to pound. Sighing, he sank down between Angel and Dean Thomas and instantly grabbed a piece of toast. All this ‘serving’ had made him starving!

   “Good morning,” Angel said with a radiant smile.

   “Good morning,” he replied, and this time he meant it.

   “Don’t let him get to you, Harry—he just wants to tease you, but it won’t be any fun for him if you don’t react.”

   He ruffled her black hair affectionately. “You always know exactly how to placate me, don’t you?” Life sure would have been dreary without her, and he was yet again struck by how lucky he was to have such a bright and caring little sister. “You know, if you want we could—”

   “Potter!” a call came from the Slytherin table.

   All around the hall, students of all ages were talking among themselves and turning their heads back and forth, looking first in Malfoy’s direction and then over at Harry. Surely they were wondering what this new development was all about, bearing the two boys’ open hatred for each other in mind.

   Harry groaned and got up. “Sorry, gotta go see what he wants.”

   When he reached the blonde, the bugger nodded down at his porridge. “Is this a strawberry in my oatmeal?” he demanded, scrunching up his nose in disgust.

   “No, I’m sure I didn’t put any strawberries in there—you said you didn’t like them.”

   Malfoy pointedly lifted up a berry with his spoon. “Then what do you call this?”

   Harry bent down slightly to have a better look. And to his bafflement it was indeed a strawberry. Staring at it, he said, “But … how did that get in there? I wasn’t even close to that bowl …”

   The Princess rounded on him. “Well, it doesn’t matter how it got there, does it? Just get it away!”

   Harry scrambled to obey and was once more allowed to return to his own seat. He was well aware that every head in the Great Hall followed him, but he stubbornly refused to acknowledge them. If he lifted his gaze to stare back at even one of them, he knew that his eyes would eventually roam to the teachers’ table, and he did _not_ wish to see his mother’s reaction to what was happening. It was mortifying enough to even think about her being present during his forced servitude.

   Back at the Gryffindor table again, he quickly buttered his toast and let a generous dollop of apricot marmalade fall onto it. Finally, his stomach was going to be appeased.

   “Potter!”

   “Oh, for crying out loud!” he exclaimed, but stalked over to the Slytherin table again all the same. “What is it this time, Malfoy?”

   “Since this is only your first day I will pretend you just called me ‘Master’ and excuse your transgression,” the blonde said, making it clear that he was being immeasurably generous. “I understand that the transition can be a bit befuddling. But don’t make a habit of it. You will get no more warnings.”

   Harry rolled his eyes. “Whatever, _Master._ ”

   The blonde’s face hardened and his silvery eyes narrowed. “You serve me now, Potter, and you will not disrespect me. Do you want me to call my father over and explain that you are to be escorted out of here?”

   “No, Master!” Harry said quickly. Forced himself to sound more polite and obliging. “What can I do for you?”

   Malfoy’s smirk was entirely too broad, and Harry felt an intense urge to pick up a fork from the table and scratch it off his too-pale, too-smooth face.

   “I changed my mind,” The Princess continued. “I do not feel like porridge anymore—make me a sandwich.”

   And like this it continued for the rest of breakfast, with Harry running back and forth between the two tables, being called upon again as soon as he had settled into his own seat. When the time came to go to class, Harry was fuming with badly repressed anger. He did his best to walk quietly behind Malfoy, carrying his book bag all the way to the Charms classroom in the south wing of the third floor. But that was not enough; no, the sod wanted him to stay so he would not have to hold the bag and then to accompany him into the classroom and arrange his things for him. When Harry was finally allowed to run to his Herbology class, he was already late and ultimately earned himself a stern reprimand from Professor Longbottom for arriving fifteen minutes late.

   Simmering, he cursed Malfoy and promised himself that he would find an opportunity to jinx that aggravating smirk off his face before the day was out.


	3. Balance Lost

 

Fuming and humiliated after that morning’s disrespectful treatment, Harry was unable to concentrate on his Herbology class and just stood there absently muttering under his breath. He was vaguely aware of his friends stealing worried glances at him from around the greenhouse, but he pointedly paid them no mind. He could care less about Hermione’s scowling, Neville’s sheepish, encouraging grins, and Ron’s annoying ‘it could’ve been worse’-attitude. At least the ginger was mostly too busy flirting with an uncomfortable Zacharias Smith to bother him much.

   Professor Longbottom was clearly displeased with him and repeatedly tutted over him. When she dismissed them, she came over to him with her arms crossed over her chest. “Mr. Potter, I do not mean to be a dampener, but if you don’t shape up and start paying attention in my class I will have to give you a Poor,” she informed him seriously. “Are we clear?”

   “Yes, Professor—sorry,” Harry grumbled before snatching up his equipment and stuffing it in his bag.

   “You’d better listen to her, Harry,” Neville huffed as they were walking back up towards the castle, straining to keep up with his mate’s furious pace. “Mum’s the sweetest woman in the world, but if someone neglects their plants she goes a little mad.”

   Harry spared him a short look. “Thanks for the warning, Nev, I’ll keep that in mind.”

   Neville nodded, pleased at being able to help out. He was one of Harry’s closest friends; such a genuine, caring, and straightforward person. Too many people had a nasty habit of complicating things that ought to be simple; Neville never did that. It was easy to be with him, and Harry really appreciated that. Sometimes, simple was nice for a change.

   As they entered the castle, they went their separate ways, Neville with a quick wave and a “See you in History!”

   “Better let Professor Moody know I’ll be a few minutes late!” he called back.

   Harry hurried up to the third floor, aware that Malfoy would be waiting for him in the Charms corridor—most probably less than pleased since he was currently being held up. And as soon as he rounded the corner into the corridor, that assumption proved true.

   Malfoy was standing outside the classroom, his arms defiantly crossed over his broad, slender chest, with an air of haughty indignation and a right foot that could not seem to stop tapping against the flagged floor. “Perhaps you find it amusing to keep me waiting while you take your time, Potter, but I can assure you that you will be dearly sorry if it happens again,” the Slytherin informed him when he came within earshot, and if he did not know the git better he could have sworn that he was spraying spittle all over the place.

   “Well, I beg your pardon, _Princess_ ,” he retorted sarcastically, “I was in Herbology and it kinda takes some time to walk all the way up here.”

   Malfoy made a mock regretful face. “Oh, I’m sorry, whatever could have come over me? To think that anyone else’s time should be as important as yours!” he exclaimed, throwing up his hands in a dramatic gesture of resignation.

   Harry scoffed. “More like _my_ time isn’t as important as _yours_ …”

   The blonde suddenly stepped right up to him, invading his personal space and making him feel as if an invisible barrier had just been breached. The grey eyes that glared down at him were teeming with tightly restrained anger and, not for the first time, Harry wished that he was taller so he could have met that gaze head on instead of having to look up. It was as if he submitted to him, recognising Malfoy as someone who was above him. He _hated_ it.

   “You bet your sorry arse my time is more important than yours,” the blonde was now saying with gritted teeth, his voice so low that it was hardly more than a sinister whisper. “You are my servant, and you are to act the part or you will regret ever setting your foot in this school. Are we clear?”

   To his great shame, Harry had to struggle not to look away or back up. His throat dried up, his knees began to buck as if they were at risk of giving out, and a cold discomfort made his heart pound and his skin tingle. His body was sensing danger, and regardless if the threat was legitimate or not his traitor body was preparing for flight.

   He chalked it up to the blonde being half a foot taller than him and thereby having a physical advantage that humans were instinctively programmed to perceive as intimidating.

   Clearing his throat, he said, “Easy there, Malfoy—it’s only you and me here. No need to humiliate me when there’s no-one around to witness it, right?” As smoothly and unaffectedly as he could, he reached out his hand and took the book bag from the blonde, whereupon he turned around and began to walk calmly towards the staircases. “Better get going. Can’t let my Master be late for Transfiguration, can I?”

   Running between the Transfiguration classroom and his own History of Magic lesson was easier, since they were both on the first floor, but Malfoy still complained that he was not in place right when second period ended. So Harry had to listen to a drawn out tirade of ‘you should show your Master some respect’ as he carried the blonde’s things to the library, where he would spend his free period. Harry, in turn, complained about that in Divination with Ron, Neville, and Dean Thomas.

   They dutifully nodded and damned the stuck-up blonde, but Harry sensed a certain nonchalance in them, as if they did not really think it was that big of a deal. Maybe he was just imagining it; his judgement _had_ been negatively affected ever since The Prick sentenced him to a life in servitude, after all. Or maybe they were already tiring of his ranting.

   Out of consideration for his friends, he shut up and excused himself as soon as the lesson was over. The last thing he wanted was to get on their nerves and wind up estranging himself from the only people who could help him stay sane through this ordeal. He needed some time alone to figure out how to deal with this without botching all his relationships in the process.

   “Hey, Harry,” a dreamy voice suddenly said next to him, and he spun around, startled out of his ponderings. At the sight of the petite, dirty-blonde girl on his left, he let out a sigh of relief.

   “Luna, you scared me,” he breathed accusatorily, coming to a full stop just before they reached the mouth of the corridor. The chattering of teenagers hurrying through the Entrance Hall to get to lunch drifted up to them.

   Luna Lovegood gave him a mystifying smile and cocked her head slightly as she studied him. “I saw you walking off looking confused and lost in thought, so I wanted to make sure you hadn’t become infested with Wrackspurts, but now I see there was no reason for me to worry,” she said confidently.

   Having known Luna his whole life, Harry was not the least bit surprised or perturbed by her statement. In fact, their families’ close bonds and frequent interaction with each other had made him so used to their kookiness that he practically shared their beliefs by now. His mother had always lovingly said that it ‘came with the territory’ when she spoke of her lifelong best friend, Solis Lovegood. It was only natural that their children should grow up together.

   “Good to know,” he therefore said.

   “Are you heading to lunch?” she wondered.

   “Yeah. Don’t have much of an appetite at the moment, but I’d better go anyway or Malfoy will never let me hear the end of it.”

   He snorted and shook his head emphatically.

   “He’s not that bad, once you get to know him,” Luna told him in a tone that could only be described as assuring.

   He opted for not replying to that one.

   Luna was not deterred by his silence, though. Smiling even brighter at him, she put her arm under his and began to drag him off towards the Great Hall. “I’ll walk you there!” she declared happily, commencing to skip across the Entrance Hall while humming a tune that sounded vaguely familiar.

   Harry could only laugh. Luna sure was one of a kind. Still, the coldness that had resided within him ever since he had left the Headmaster’s office the previous evening melted slightly around the edges at this easy display of kinship.

   He also enjoyed the fact that people were not gawking at him when it was Luna accompanying him; it was, after all, a rather common occurrence. Nevertheless, he gave her a grateful smile as she took a seat next to Zabini and immediately began to scoop generous amounts of steamed green peas onto her plate.

   For a moment, he was lost in thought, but then he remembered that he was supposed to serve Malfoy his lunch. Hurriedly, he turned around—

   —and found that the blonde’s seat was empty.

   Blinking sheepishly at the spot that was supposed to be occupied by his nemesis, Harry said, “Where’s Malfoy?”

   He noted that his cousin looked up at him disapprovingly, as if he had spoken directly to him. It was the Slytherin Keeper, Bletchley, that replied, though. “Probably in the library waiting for you to pick him up,” he said soberly, his face an emotionless mask.

   Harry started at that. “Bollocks!” he muttered under his breath, and hurried off around the table so suddenly that he stumbled on a 4th-year girl’s bag and almost fell face-first. There was no time for caution, however, so he just kept running until he reached the library in the Training Grounds Tower. Panting and wheezing, almost out of energy altogether, he staggered into the immense library.

   The blonde was sitting at the same table he had left him at, books open all around him, deeply engrossed in whatever he was writing on the parchment that was neatly laid out in front of him.

   Catching his breath for a moment, Harry watched as Malfoy’s hand moved elegantly over the parchment. The long, slender fingers were effortlessly curled around the quill, and every now and then he flicked his wrist lightly. Harry wondered if he did that when he wrote certain letters, if perhaps he put a certain flourish to his y:s and g:s. He was writing with such utter focus, as if the world around him had melted away and the only thing that existed was the words that he was currently creating with such painstaking care. He did not even seem to notice how his silvery fringe was falling down into his eyes, or how his shirt collar was askew.

   Coming out of his reverie, Harry walked up to the blonde, steeling himself for the onslaught that awaited him. Sure, he looked calm enough, but The Princess was known to lash out without warning.

   Malfoy heard him approaching and cast a glance at him before returning to his writing. “Ah, perfect,” he drawled, “I was just about to finish this section. One moment and we’ll head off to lunch.”

   Harry was completely taken aback. He was off the hook? No scathing comments? No name calling? No punishment for being late?

   It was the first break he had caught since this whole nightmare started, so he decided to embrace it. “Sure,” he said. “Would you like me to pack up the things you’re not using, Master?”

   Still preoccupied, Malfoy merely waved his hand at him dismissively. “Yes, and prepare those books for me so I can check them out,” he mumbled distractedly.

   By the time Harry had packed up, the blonde was done and left him to add the parchment, ink, and quill while he went up to Madam Pince’s desk to check out the books. Harry noted that Malfoy had an aggravatingly neat and elegant handwriting while he rolled up the parchment; his cursive was so even and flawless that it almost looked printed.

   _If only I could write like that_ , he thought and briefly shuddered at the thought of his own hasty scrawls. He liked learning new things, but he had always been too lazy to put much effort into penmanship.

   Lunch went by in pretty much the same fashion as breakfast, with Malfoy fully enjoying his new status by loudly calling on Harry every few minutes, forcing him to run back and forth between their house tables. Every time he came back to his own seat, he speedily wolfed down as much of his food as he could, for he knew that he would only have a minute or two. Angel tried to have a conversation with him, but it proved impossible under the circumstances.

   When Harry had made over half a dozen round trips, Seamus Finnigan turned around in his seat and leaned over from the Hufflepuff table. “Hey Potter, what’s up with you and Malfoy today?”

   The way he said it made Harry wince. “I’d rather not talk about it,” he said, hoping that his tone of voice would make it clear that the subject was closed.

   “But you’ve always had this feud going—and now all of a sudden you come when he calls?” Seamus pressed.

   _Apparently not._

   A headache was coming on again. “Look, Seamus … I am not in the mood today, so can we just drop this?”

   The Hufflepuff looked as though he was about to protest, but Ron sailed in and saved the day. With a mischievous, crooked smile, he winked at Harry and said, “No worries, mate, I’ll gladly distract him.” And with a playful flick of his fire-red, silky scarf, he rose from their bench and smoothly slid down half on the Hufflepuff bench, half in Finnigan’s lap. “Hello, stud,” he purred, whereupon he giggled coquettishly and wrapped an end of his scarf around Seamus’s neck.

   Grateful, Harry sighed in relief and settled in to continue his meal in peace.

   “Potter!”

   A groan escaped him. _So much for that._

   
  


* * *

   
  


That afternoon, Gryffindor and Slytherin had double Potions—their first mutual lesson since Harry had become Malfoy’s servant. All day, he had dreaded this, because he could imagine only too well how things would play out.

   Shuddering, he almost ran into one of the students that were coming up the dank Dungeon corridor. He apologised mutedly.

   “Oh, Harry, hey!”

   He looked up as he recognised the voice and met the sharp, intelligent blue eyes of Noelle Longbottom. “Oh, hi Noelle,” he murmured somewhat dazedly. His head was positively pounding by then, so he was not exactly able to pay attention to what was happening around him. He hardly even registered that Malfoy disappeared around a bend in the corridor ahead of him.

   “How are you?” she went on, a concerned furrow between her brows. “I heard about the disciplinary action from Ginny and wanted to make sure you’re okay.”

   For a few seconds, Harry did not compute what she had actually said, but then he started. Of course. Noelle was coming from her Potions lesson, a class that she shared with Ginny Weasley; the 6th-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors had been paired up for Potions that year. And Ginny had naturally heard about his predicament from either her brother or Dean, her long-term boyfriend.

   The wrinkle between Noelle’s eyebrows deepened. “Harry? Are you all right?”

   Belatedly, he realised that he had not replied yet. “Oh, yes—yes, I’m fine,” he assured her. “It’s just a lot, having to deal with The Princess pretty much 24/7.” He rolled his eyes for effect.

   Noelle laughed wryly. “Yeah, I can imagine. I’m sure you’ll figure it out, though, and if he gets too much you can always let me know and I’ll kick his arse for you,” she offered jocularly.

   “Yeah, thanks, I’ll keep that in mind.” He generally did not like when people suggested that he would not be able to fight his own battles—he had to admit to being a bit sensitive about his height—but for some reason he never felt like that when it came from Noelle. They had become fast friends almost from the moment Neville introduced them five years previously. A very smart and no-bullshit kind of girl, she was handy to have around. Plus, she was unpretentious and never judged, both traits that sometimes seemed on the verge of extinction.

   “I have to be off—gotta help out in the Potions Club before last period,” she said, cutting into his ponderings. “But be good, yeah? Your temper would only make things worse.”

   Blushing at the truth in that statement, he merely nodded as she hurried off. But just as he was about to continue on to the Potions classroom, something struck him. He swiftly turned back around and called out: “Wait!”

   Noelle stopped ten yards up ahead and looked back at him.

   “Would you mind brewing me some Painkiller Potions?” he wondered. “I’m gonna need to stock up if I’m going to make it through this.”

   She nodded once. “Sure. I’ll have a batch ready for you by tomorrow.”

   “Thanks, Noelle—you’re a life saver.”

   When he entered the Dungeon classroom, Professor Slughorn seemed to have just arrived himself, for he was standing behind his desk, arranging the ingredients and other paraphernalia needed for the lesson. Harry unpacked Malfoy’s things, peripherally registering that he was sitting alone at his table rather than being flanked by Zabini as usual. He ignored the jive about his near-tardiness and was just about to head over to his own seat next to Cedric when the blonde stopped him.

   “And where do you think you’re going?” he demanded authoritatively.

   Harry raised a questioning eyebrow at him. “To my seat,” he said, feeling it was so obvious it barred explanation.

   The Princess drew himself up and adopted a very important air. “From this day on, your seat is right here, Potter,” he informed him haughtily, “for as my servant, you are obliged to assist me by cutting up my ingredients and fetching whatever I may need.”

   Harry sighed inwardly. _Figures_ , he thought, and cast a mournful glance back at the right-hand side of the classroom where Cedric and the other Gryffindors sat watching the exchange. With a defeated slump of his shoulders, he sank down on the stool next to Malfoy’s.

   “Oh, this is brilliant!” Luna was beaming from the desk in front of him, where she was sitting next to Goyle. “Now we’ll have the chance to talk more and compare our potions! I never did like it with you all the way across the room, Harry, I feel lonely in a weird sort of way when I’m not with you for a long time. This is much better.”

   At that, he had to smile, if only lopsidedly. “Yeah, it’s nice to spend time together,” he agreed. Since they were in different houses and both had very full schedules, there was not always much time left for hanging out.

   The Slytherins around them went _Woooo_ and started up a juvenile, teasing chant of Harry Potter having a girlfriend that, mortifyingly enough, made him flush crimson. It did not help that Luna just grinned knowingly instead of refuting the matter.

   He did not understand why the thought of people believing him and Luna to be a couple should embarrass him so much. But for some reason, a sense of panic began to rise from deep inside him, threatening to engulf him if he did not fight it back down.

   Why did it matter what others thought of him? What was the harm in them thinking they were together? In fact, should not he be flattered that people thought it possible for him to get such a beautiful and unique girlfriend? As a boy in his late teens, he should probably be thrilled at the mere prospect.

   Besides, it could never happen, anyway, since Luna was not interested in anything like that, so there was nothing for him to worry about. Yet, it bothered him and made him cringe inside.

   In order to distract his mind from all such thoughts—and to give people something else to talk about—he immersed himself in his role as servant and cut, hacked, ground, stirred, counted, fetched, and cleaned whenever needed, much to Malfoy’s surprise. After a while, he seemed to take offense to the fact that Harry was doing his chores without so much as a grunt and became increasingly more vicious in his treatment of him. It resulted in Harry having to spend the remaining time up until dinner running ridiculous errands all over the castle only to get scolded when he returned to the blonde, who always found something new to complain about.

   At dinner, Harry hardly had time to eat for all the running to Malfoy’s side, leaving him hungry and cranky for the rest of the evening.

   When he finally stumbled into the Gryffindor common room way past curfew that night, he was beyond exhausted and shaking violently with barely contained anger. All he wanted was to bury himself under his duvet and never come out again, but he had a feeling he would not be able to sleep for a long time yet. If at all.

   A light was on at one of the tables in the study area of the common room, and when Harry arrived, Cedric turned around to greet him.

   “What are you doing still up?” Harry wondered, seeing as it was close to midnight already.

   Cedric shrugged dismissively. “Lost track of time working on the History of Magic essay for Monday.”

   Harry scrunched up his nose at that. “Pretty unfair to set an essay during the first lesson of the new year,” he commented, although he knew that it was just like Professor Moody to do that.

   A wry smile played at the corners of Cedric’s mouth. “Wouldn’t expect anything less from that man,” he said, as if he had read Harry’s mind. Then he turned around and hastily scooped up his belongings. “Guess I’d better head off to bed, as well,” he added as he rose from his seat.

   Harry nodded, and they walked up to their dorm room together. Still trembling and jittery with adrenaline after his furious day, Harry just threw himself down on his bed and let out a long, content moan when its comforting softness hugged him.

   Over by his own bed, Cedric chuckled quietly. “Rough day?”

   “The worst,” Harry replied, and leisurely folded his arms under his head. He gazed over to his right, where Cedric was currently laying out his dressing gown on top of the covers. He was so tall—about 6’1”—and yet so unimpededly agile. How was that possible? Harry himself had enough trouble coordinating his 5’5” frame, more often than not tripping over his own feet, so it always fascinated him when tall people managed themselves with grace and effortlessness.

   He silently watched as Cedric pulled off his knitted jumper and carefully folded it before putting it on top of his trunk. The dorm mate’s back was muscular, sinewy, yet at the same time slender, with soft lines running from his shoulders all the way down to the curve of his back. His fair skin seemed to burn a warm amber in the flickering torchlight.

   He wondered if the other boy’s legs were as muscularly masculine as well, but he did not get a chance to find out as Cedric put on his dressing gown before pulling off his trousers.

   Casting a glance over at Harry, Cedric said, “’Night, Harry,” before drawing the bed curtains around him.

   “’Night,” Harry replied, but he remained where he was, fully dressed and wide awake.

   It was many hours before he finally managed to fall into a fitful sleep, and during that time he mentally went over every possible way he might murder Malfoy without casting suspicion on himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When Friday morning, September 4, came around, Draco was in an illegally good mood. All of his previous reservations and apprehensions concerning Potter following him around had effectively been eradicated. Having his archenemy as his personal servant was quite possibly the best present his father had ever given him, and he planned on making full use of his power.

   “Looking sharp!” Blaise exclaimed as he sauntered into their dorm room fresh out of the shower.

   Draco was just adjusting his tie and rewarded him with a sneer in the mirror. “Of course I am. There has never been a more handsome bloke walking the corridors of this castle.”

   Blaise sniggered. “Right you are, mate.”

   Satisfied with his look, Draco picked up his neatly packed book bag and strolled out to the common room without checking if Blaise was following; just like a dog, he always did.

   There seemed to be some sort of commotion at the end of the hidden passageway that led out into the Dungeons, and the cause of it became apparent when Draco exited with his entourage close behind. A large group of Slytherins of all ages were standing around a dead-looking Harry Potter, whom was practically swaying on his feet and sporting dark rings under his eyes. And speaking of his eyes … Draco almost jerked backwards when he came close enough to take in Potter’s stunningly green eyes standing out, forcefully being kept wide open, as if the Gryffindor was afraid to fall asleep on the spot if he did not stare as battily as he could.

   “Good grief, man,” he blurted out before he could stop himself. “Have you ever heard of the concept ‘sleep?’ It might do you some good to look it up.”

   “Yeah, yeah, yeah …,” Potter muttered disgruntledly, and stepped up to him. “Just give me the bloody bag so we can get a move on.”

   Draco raised an eyebrow at that, but since he was in such good spirits he decided to be generous and not chide him for his rudeness. Instead, he led his fellow Slytherins and the sulky Gryffindor first to breakfast and then on to his godfather’s classroom in the North Tower, conversing light-heartedly with Pansy, Miles, and Blaise.

   Since he always kept one ear out, he also picked up snippets of other exchanges around him and was therefore aware of Crabbe and Dursley mocking Potter for his lumbering gait and zombie-like stare. He also picked up on Luna enthusiastically telling the raven-haired boy that she had spotted some Gulping Plimpies in the Black Lake, and within five minutes she had managed to talk him into accompanying her there that evening so she could paint them.

   He had to smile wryly to himself. Luna could convince anyone to do just about anything. She had an inexhaustible supply of Slytherin slyness, and he had to admire her for that.

   They reached their mutual Defence Against the Dark Arts class, and Potter immediately dumped Draco’s book bag on the first table he reached, angrily pulled out the necessary supplies and promptly stormed over to another table as far away as possible before slumping down.

   Feeling rather affronted by this Neanderthal behaviour, Draco stuck his chin out and pursed his lips disapprovingly. “Potter, you will come back here and arrange my effects in an orderly fashion right this minute,” he demanded in his best imitation of his father’s authoritative tone.

   At first, Potter just glared at him incredulously, but ultimately he groaned and cursed under his breath and stalked back up to the blonde. “Bloody git,” he muttered, either believing that he was speaking so quietly that it would not carry or not giving a fuck if anyone else heard. “Think you’re above everyone else just ‘cos your Daddy happens to be the Headmaster … Bloody menace is what you are.”

   “Tone, Potter,” Draco warned, feeling his good humour slowly running out of him with every word the moping Gryffindor uttered.

   “You can shove your tone where—”

   “Finish that sentence and you will never have a chance at a decent job.” His teeth were gritted, his grey eyes digging into Potter’s green ones with an unmistakable threat fiercely communicated by way of him towering over the little bugger, and his lips were tightly pressed into a thin line. Apparently Potter got the message, because he shut his trap and made to go back to his seat.

   Draco cleared his throat impatiently.

   The raven-haired boy just glared at him with those wild, dark-ringed eyes.

   “What do you say?” he therefore elaborated, moving in closer to him again.

   Potter seemed to swallow nervously as he crowded him, his gaze shifting about as if he was searching for an escape route. Draco revelled in the power he held over his nemesis. If there was something he loved, it was watching the object of his hatred squirm before him.

   “Your table is ready for you, Master,” the Gryffindor murmured resignedly.

   Draco relaxed and took a step back. “Thank you, slave. You may go sit down with the rest of the rabble.”

   Potter immediately scurried off, slinking down next to Granger and that disgusting offspring of hers. At the sight of what Draco had reduced her friend to, she shot him an angry look that only made him laugh. As if someone like Granger could ever hope to intimidate him!

   By this point, it was already past eight-thirty and the lesson should have started, but Professor Snape was nowhere to be seen. People were starting to cast their eyes about, speculating on what might be keeping the professor from the first lesson of the year. “Do you think the old man finally croaked?” Pansy asked next to him, a wicked grin on her puggish face.

   Draco snorted. “Forty-two is hardly old, Panse.”

   She gave him an incredulous look. “Puh-lease! He’s practically a dinosaur!”

   “Whatever you say. Now, don’t bother me, I would like some peace in the morn—”

   He was interrupted by a loud _BANG!_ from the front of the room. Every student present swirled around towards the front of the classroom just as a giant cloud of dark-grey smoke erupted behind the desk and began to blink in shifting neon colours that hurt to look at. Some of the people around the room squinted against the bright light show, others grimaced in distaste.

   Draco merely rolled his eyes at his godfather’s predictability.

   And as sure as the sun rose in the east and set in the west, Professor Snape emerged from the strobe cloud as if he had just appeared out of nowhere, with a dramatic mien and his arms stretched straight out at his sides with his cape-like cloak hanging like giant bat wings from them. “Today … you will all embark on the journey that will ultimately take you to your triumphant graduation … or glorious failure!” Severus Snape’s voice boomed ominously through the classroom, making several students cover their ears. “For this final year of your education … my expert teaching will … separate the sheep from the goats—or the squibs from the wizards, if you will.”

   He finished off his little speech with a violent flick of his right arm that sent a long string of tied-together, colourful handkerchiefs shooting out of his wide sleeve. When the last  of the fabric had hit the ground, he swirled around to face the class to the accompaniment of rustling robes and dancing, shoulder-length black hair. He sketched a bow at his unwilling audience, most probably expecting a roar of applause for his ‘magnificent’ performance.

   Draco shook his head in resignation. It was so typical of his godfather to use voice-enhancement charms and cheap magic tricks to ‘capture his audience’ … Ever since he was a child of five and his parents had taken him to his very first Muggle magic show, Snape had been spellbound with the marvels of Muggle illusionists. Even though he was a real-life wizard himself, little Severus had become obsessed with learning all the tricks of the trade, dreaming of becoming a famous magician.

   It was a dream that he had sadly never grown out of.

   The thing, though, was that his chosen audience did not want to be captured; in a school where real magic was performed every day, nobody was interested in the cheap parlour tricks that their crazy Professor persisted in forcing upon them.

   As Snape grew painfully aware of his students’ utter lack of response to his performance, he turned his nose up and sneered out over the classroom.

   “Here we go again …,” Draco muttered, feeling a familiar burning mortification at being practically related to the man.

   They all knew what to expect after having been taught by Professor Snape for six years already, so no-one really cared. When the spurned would-be magician descended on them with vicious determination to win their admiration and acknowledgement, theatrically pulling out all his old tricks in swift, fluid motions, the students around the room did not so much as bat an eye. There were hardly even any objections when the professor took five points off Slytherin for failing to laugh, or when he took ten points off Gryffindor for not looking when he pulled a live rabbit out of  his trousers. It was, after all, an everyday occurrence at Hogwarts.

   At 10:30, he was so fed up with their indifference that he dismissed them—and was livid when they finally cheered and applauded because he had let them out fifteen minutes early.

   “Brilliant!” Draco exclaimed, slapping his hands together. “Then you have time to run an errand for me, Potter.” He motioned for the glowering Gryffindor to come closer and pulled a neatly folded piece of parchment out of the inner pocket of his robes. “Take this and run up to the Hospital Wing for me. Ask Madam Pomfrey for the items on that list, I will need them tomorrow.”

   “What? But that’s on the other end of—”

   “Clock is ticking, Potter,” he interrupted, and tapped his left wrist as if he was wearing one of those time-telling devices that so many of the Muggleborns and half-bloods were sporting.

   Grumbling wordlessly, Potter hurried off and had soon disappeared around a corner. Pleased to get that out of the way, Draco put his arm around the five-foot-two Luna’s shoulders in an effortlessly matey manner. “I think this may be the best thing that has ever happened to me,” he chirruped as they walked down the corridor together.

   She looked up at him with her dreamy, unreadable grey eyes and smiled. “Oh, it definitely is,” she agreed, “but the reason why won’t become apparent for some time yet.”

   He chuckled darkly. “Oh, I know exactly why!”

   She stopped and forced him to halt his steps, as well. With an enigmatic and almost wistful expression, she tilted her head and seemed to stare into his very soul for an uncomfortably long time. Finally, she said, “No, you don’t take Divination.”

   And with those words, she skipped off and left him to wonder what the bloody Hell had just transpired.

   Potter caught up with him in the third floor corridor that led to the Charms classroom, looking even more harried than before. Draco winced when he took in the other boy’s messier-than-usual hair. “You look as if a small animal has just died on your head,” he complained. Being a neat-freak, himself, things like that bothered him exceptionally.

   “Yeah? Well, you look as if you were a spoilt brat who’s been brought up to be as big of a git as his father,” the raven-haired boy countered acidly. “Wait—you are. Fancy that!”

   Draco made a wry face. “Oh, cute—very cute.”

   Their bickering continued all the way to Professor Flitwick’s classroom, and Draco quite enjoyed the progressively exasperated and annoyed expression on the Gryffindor’s face. If he could make his enemy’s life a living Hell, the dreary school days were well worth suffering through—because Potter would always be the one suffering more.

   “Mate, you are having way too much fun with this,” Blaise chortled when Potter had scurried off.

   Draco put on an air of superiority. “I am merely enjoying the respect that is due me,” he drawled, but made no secret of the pride he took in his own genius. “Potter should have been treating me like this right from the start; it is only fair that this wrong is being amended.”

   “Yeah, it’s about bloody time he recognised your greatness!” Pansy agreed with a wicked grin.

   Draco plumed at the praise. “Flattery won’t get you anywhere, Pansy,” he said with mock modesty.

   The dark-haired girl fluttered her eyelashes at him exaggeratedly. “Really now? So telling you that your hair looks absolutely gorgeous today and that your amazing cunning is more than double that of any other Slytherin won’t make you help me with my Transfiguration homework?”

   He laughed despite himself. “We’ll see about that.”

   Pleased, Pansy turned around in her seat in the row below his and faced the chalkboard just as the tiny Professor Flitwick levitated himself up onto his stool and began the lecture.

   Apparently not the least interested in learning, Blaise leaned in closer and whispered, “So, what are you planning next?”

   “Hmm?” Draco was only half listening.

   “For Potter,” Blaise elaborated. “I know you’ve got bigger things brewing than just having him carry your things and running errands. C’mon—spill!”

   He gave his friend a knowing smirk. “Oh, I will make sure to keep him busy, don’t you worry,” he promised. To the fellow Slytherins sitting around him, aptly listening in, it probably sounded as if he was hiding a grand plan—and that was exactly what he wanted them to think. In reality, he had not yet figured out quite how to take advantage of his father’s ‘gift,’ and he did not want his housemates to think him soft.

   “Did you see the way he shrugged away when Draco stared him down in DADA?” Crabbe asked out of the blue, laughing out loud and earning a stern glare from Flitwick.

   Several Slytherins joined in. “Yeah, he looked as if he was gonna run for his life!” Blaise concurred.

   “Yeah, he is clearly scared of you, Draco,” Crabbe continued in amusement.

   “As he should be!” Pansy put in, once again turned towards them.

   “Right you are,” Draco commended. “He knows I hold the key to his future, and I will make him grovel and plead until he’s lost his last shred of dignity.”

   Someone in the row in front of them, three chairs to the right of Pansy, suddenly turned around and had the nerve to address him directly. Not surprisingly, it was that knobhead Xerxes McGonagall, the Ravenclaw Seeker. “Come off it, Malfoy!” he said. “Leave Harry be and stop that childish nonsense of yours.”

   Incensed at the insolence, Draco shot him a murderous glare. “Know your place, McGonagall,” he warned. “Your grandmother may be a teacher here, but teachers can always be sacked.”

   “Okay, okay, that is quite enough!” Professor Flitwich piped up from the front of the classroom. “Quiet, all of you, unless you all want to start the year with a week’s detention!”

   Mollified, Xerxes returned his attention to the lecture, and Draco noted that he was flushing with shame. _Serves you right._

   Not daring to disturb the lesson any further, the Slytherins settled in to listen and take notes. Draco, on the other hand, could not focus on the lecture; his thoughts kept wandering back to the subject of Potter. He spent the rest of the third period daydreaming about what he might do to the pesky Gryffindor next and tried to come up with something that was sure to get him off his rocker. What would make Potter explode?

   And then it hit him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Sixth was a free period for Harry, and he silently thanked his younger self for not taking up Alchemy in third year. After having been at Malfoy’s beck and call for two days he had hardly got a moment to himself, so once he had been dismissed from the blonde’s side he had retreated to the common room. His head was killing him and his eyes felt as if they had been dried in a microwave and then handed back to him only after someone had rolled them in a pit of coarse sand.

   _I don’t know how much longer I’ll be able to take this_ , he thought and flung himself down onto the couch that faced the fireplace. And if he felt like that after just two days, how bad was he going to feel after a week? A month?

   He lay back on the cushions and tried to make himself comfortable. At least he had fifty minutes to just relax and rest up before he needed to go pick up Malfoy. He would just let his eyes rest for a bit, let his mind go blank and—

   “Harry,” Hermione said, sounding surprised. “What are you doing here?”

   He opened his eyes again and blinked at her in confusion. “What d’you mean? I have a free period. What are _you_ doing here? Aren’t you supposed to be in Alchemy?”

   She was standing down by his feet with Oliver squirming in her arms, obviously not very pleased with being held by his mummy at the moment. “No, class ended ten minutes ago,” she said, turning her face slightly away from him as Oliver began to pull on her lower lip.

   Harry sat up slowly and rubbed at his tired eyes. “It’s over already? Ugh, I must have fallen asleep.”

   Out of frustration, Oliver yelled straight into Hermione’s ear. She finally gave up on holding him still and put him down on the floor. “Don’t run off now, Mummy’s gonna make some banana-and-pear mash, okay?” she told the hyperactive toddler.

   Harry watched them with an amused smile playing on his lips. “I still can’t believe you wound up a teenage mum,” he stated. “Out of all people, you’re probably the last person I’d ever imagine having a child while you’re still in school.”

   She blushed and nervously brushed a few errant strands of bushy hair behind her ear. “It wasn’t exactly something I was planning or even thought possible, myself,” she murmured. But then she looked over at the little boy, whom was waving a stuffed Pygmy Puff around while making wordless noises, and smiled affectionately. “But I wouldn’t change it for the world.”

   Neither would Harry. Hermione had always been his best friend, and even though she had never exactly been a sombre or melancholy person, she had not exactly been light at heart, either. Since Oliver had come along, she had been much happier. He supposed being a mother gave her a purpose in life that nothing else had provided before. In any case, he was glad—and relieved—to see her so happy, so content. She meant a lot to him, even if he was not very good at expressing it.

   His thoughts were broken when Hermione turned her attention on him again. “Aren’t you supposed to meet up with Malfoy?”

   Harry started. Malfoy! “Bugger!” he expelled, and scrambled to get up from the couch. “I’ll see you later!” He ran out of the portrait hole in a wild panic— _Twenty minutes late; Malfoy is going to kill me!_ —and did not stop until he had reached the Alchemy classroom down in the Dungeons. The only problem was, the blonde was not there.

   Swirling around and looking up and down the corridor, Harry felt the sensation of panic swelling ominously within him. If it was allowed free range, he was sure that he would soon be in the throes of an anxiety attack. It was a new and terrifying experience for him, but he had heard Angel describing her attacks often enough to recognise the symptoms. He clutched at his chest, which was beginning to hurt and cramp up. Blimey, how did his sister cope with this on a daily basis?

   “Fuck!” he cried as he realised that Malfoy must have grown tired of waiting for him and stormed off in a rage. “Fuck, fuck, _fuck_!”

   “If you go on like that you’ll wind up a one-word-man, and you do not want ‘fuck’ to be the only word you speak,” the unmistakable drawl of Draco Malfoy said from beyond the ajar classroom door.

   Harry pushed the door open and peered in. “Malfoy?”

   The blonde was sitting at a table in the middle of the room with his back almost unnaturally straight and a carefully indifferent expression on his pale face. But even though he looked calm, Harry immediately knew that he was raging on the inside. Every muscle in the blonde’s face and body was tensed; his jaw set. The silver-grey eyes that stared back at him spoke of a cold, quiet fury that was just waiting to be unleashed on him.

   “Um, I’m really sorry I’m late, I fell asleep in the common room,” he said warily, nervously scratching the side of his head and messing up his unruly hair even worse. “I know it’s no excuse, but I hadn’t slept all night, basically, and … Well, I’ll just tidy up here and I’ll walk you to wherever you wanna go.” He was rambling, but there was no stopping it; he had always had the nervous habit of babbling like a loon when he was uncomfortable or anxious.

   The blonde merely watched as Harry packed up his things, his demeanour condescending and self-righteous. It made Harry squirm; his hands trembled slightly and made the crisp parchment rustle like leaves in an autumn breeze. He desperately wanted to know what was going on in Malfoy’s mind at that moment so that he could accurately prepare himself for the verbal onslaught that was sure to come.

   When he had swung the packed bag over his shoulder, Harry stood in hesitation and waited for some sort of sign. Nothing came. Not a word. Malfoy was not even blinking.

   Harry shifted his feet. “So, er … ready to go?” When there was still no reply, he searched his brain for the right thing to say and belatedly started. “ _Master._ Are you ready to go, _Master_?”

   The blonde instantly lit up and rose from his stool. “I thought you’d never ask,” he quipped with mock joviality. As if nothing out of the ordinary had happened, he started strolling down the aisle towards the door. “We are off to the library, slave—I have some reading to catch up on.”

   Head low and cheeks still burning with shame at being so late, Harry shuffled along a few steps behind the blonde as he sauntered up from the Dungeons and on to the library. He cast a glance over at the clock above Madam Pince’s station and saw that Quidditch practice had already started. A pang of guilt hit him. He was supposed to be there, and he was letting everyone down right now. Still, he felt he should at least get Malfoy set before leaving; perhaps it would make him feel a little better to make up for _one_ tardy arrival.

   Malfoy chose the same table as last time, towards the back of the library, by a window that overlooked the courtyard. When he was settled, he ceremoniously told Harry which books to go get for him. Harry hurried along the aisles and returned with the requested literature, putting them down on the table as gingerly as he could in his stressed state. Satisfied, he turned to leave.

   “And where do you think you’re going?”

   Harry gazed back at him. “It’s Friday,” he said knowingly, because really, that should be enough for the Slytherin to understand that he had to go.

   But Malfoy just stared at him incredulously. “Yeah, so?”

   Harry bristled. “I have Quidditch practice Friday afternoons and it’s already past five,” he emphasised. It was really hard not to lose his patience when the git was so excruciatingly _slow_.

   Malfoy did not budge an inch. “I’m sure they’ll do fine without you.”

   “But I am the Captain!”

   The blonde had the nerve to _yawn_! “You are boring me with your bellyaching, Potter. Calm down. Your team has a three-hour practice session tomorrow—you’ll make do. I have need of you, and my needs will always come first. Now, sit down.” He impatiently indicated the chair next to him.

   Harry could not believe it. Of all the insolent, unfair, selfish things that bastard could demand from him … His hands fisted and opened, fisted and opened automatically at his sides; his chest was heaving with indignation and his breath was coming out in fast, shallow huffs. “You can’t do that!” he yelled. “You can’t fucking do that!”

   “Silence over there!” Madam Pince called out reproachfully.

   Malfoy regarded him with cold contempt. “I can, and I will,” he growled, “and you will do as I say, _slave_. That is the condition for your staying on at Hogwarts, remember? Now— _sit— down_.”

   It was not fair. It fucking was not fair! Waiting on the git and attending to his every whim during meals and between classes—Hell, even in the evenings!—he could take. He was prepared to do that if it meant he could graduate and later fulfil his dream of becoming a teacher, but keeping him from Quidditch practice?!

   The red-hot anger that was coursing through him and making his blood boil suddenly made him dizzy, probably because of his sleep deprivation, and he found that instead of storming off as he wanted to do he had to sit down to not faint. Evidently, Malfoy took that as a concession, for he immediately began to give Harry detailed instructions.

   Dazed and experiencing a rather alarming case of vertigo, Harry could do nothing but comply. Focusing on something else made his head swim less. However, as it became apparent that the reason Malfoy ‘had need of him’ was so he could fetch him books, smooth out his parchment, and _turn the bloody pages_ for him as he studied, it was the last straw.

   Harry got up and left the library in such a fury that his vision was reduced to a narrow tunnel and the blood surging in his ears drowned out the Slytherin’s incensed calls. He ignored him; it did not fucking matter anymore. No education was worth this—he would just have to find another way to secure the future he wanted.

   And to think that he had actually felt bad for being late!

   “Harry! Where have you been? We waited for you on the Quidditch pitch—” Cedric was saying as he burst into the Gryffindor common room, but he just went straight past him and took the stairs up to the dorms two at a time. Once in his room, he set about packing his trunk by angrily throwing stuff pell-mell into it.

   “Harry, what is going on?” Hermione’s voice was asking worriedly from the doorway.

   “What the fuck does it look like?” he barked back. “I’m leaving this bloody place. I am not going to take any more of that prick’s bollocks! He can go stuff it for all I care.”

   “But Harry … you can’t possibly mean that you’d actually take _expulsion_ over this,” Hermione objected.

   “What has he done this time?” Cedric asked at the same time, sounding as if he was preparing himself to go knock Malfoy out.

   Harry told them while stubbornly trying to shut his overstuffed trunk. They listened, both inflamed, but even though they understood his position they were still persisting that he should calm down and think things through before making a decision he would not be able to rescind. “It doesn’t matter what you say—I’ve made up my mind,” he informed them. “I can’t stand staying here a minute longer.”

   Just as he was about to levitate his trunk out of there, a tinny intercom message rang out urging him to go to the Headmaster’s office. “Brilliant!” he exclaimed. “Now I can tell him I’m quitting in person!”

   The others exchanged an alarmed look, but he ignored them and hurried off, a skip in his step for the first time since this nightmare began. He was taking action and making a decision for himself—and it felt good. As he entered The Prick’s office, though, he found that he was not the only invitee …

   Malfoy was standing to Harry’s right as he came in, having what looked like a staring contest with his father. Feeling his ire rising to dangerous levels again at the sight of the blonde, Harry charged up to the desk and pointed an accusing finger at his nemesis. “What is _he_ doing here?!”

   “There, there, Mr. Potter,” The Prick drawled superciliously, “I can assure you that everything is in order and that you will prance out of here again in no time.” He gave them both very pointed looks. “I hear that you kept Mr. Potter from Quidditch practice this afternoon, Draco.”

   Draco drew himself up under the stern, hard stare of his father. “I had need of him,” he declared.

   “‘Had need of me?!’” Harry bellowed. “You wanted me to be a bloody _page-turner_!”

   Malfoy Senior made an impatient, authoritative noise that silenced them both. “I did not call you into my office to give me a headache—calling my darling wife through the fire would have been a much more effective method. I called you in here to make it clear that, although Mr. Potter has been assigned to you as your servant, Draco, you may not prevent him from practicing with his team any more than you may call him out of class. There are rules to be upheld.”

   Malfoy instantly objected. “He is my servant! I have the right to put him to work when I wish to!”

   At that, his father leaned forward over his desk and somehow managed to tower over them even though he was sitting down and they were standing. His son’s reaction was immediate: he flinched as though he had just been slapped and reluctantly lowered his gaze. It was clear that he was submitting to The Prick’s authority and recognising that he was in no place to challenge it.

   Seeing Malfoy’s submission, Harry forgot his reason for coming there. He felt like he had earned at least a small victory in that moment. There _were_ limits to what Malfoy could do, and that was valuable information that he stored away in the back of his mind. So when the blonde stormed out of The Prick’s office, Harry was one step behind and could not help but mock him for his capitulation in the face of his father. It was an opportunity too tempting to waste, and he savoured every snapped retort from the blonde. Unfortunately, his focus on the exchange made him oblivious to his surroundings and made him miss the last stair.

   Before he knew it, he was tumbling into the blonde’s retreating back, his foot vainly searching for traction. Caught unawares, Malfoy was pushed forward and lost his balance, his breath leaving his lungs in a forceful _ugh_. They went down in a heap on the hard stone floor, Harry landing on the blonde’s back with his face pressed into the other boy’s neck, every part of their bodies touching; tensed teenage-boy muscles ground against each other.

   Malfoy cursed underneath him, and Harry was just about to push off him in disgust—really, he was—when he became aware of his lips pressing against the Slytherin’s warm, smooth-skinned nape. For some inexplicable reason, his heart skipped a beat and seemed to be unwilling to pump around his blood any longer, only to restart itself with double force. To Harry’s utter surprise, his pulse accelerated to the accompaniment of a strange warmth that rivalled the icy coldness in his chest. Suddenly, it was as if he could not breathe.

   Scared, he tried to scrabble away from the blonde, but his body would not obey. Instead, he just lay there, subject to his bursting chest.

   _What is happening to me?_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who use the metric system:
> 
> 5’5” = 165 cm  
> 6’1” = 185 cm  
> 5’2” = 157 cm


	4. A Mind in Uproar

 

It was as if his brain had been hijacked or filled with some viscous liquid that completely clogged it and prevented any coherent thoughts, any sensory perceptions. He knew that he was supposed to have sight, hearing, smell—yet he was unable to pick up the slightest trace of his surroundings. He also knew that he was supposed to have touch, but he could not even feel his own hands as he tightly gripped his knees for support.

   _What is happening to me?_

   His head was spinning and there was a metallic taste in his mouth; he felt as if he might be sick at any moment. Maybe it was just the lack of sleep and the stress of the past two days, but … Recent events seemed to point to something different altogether.

   However much he tried to focus his mind on the people around him and regardless of his efforts to just relax and enjoy his unexpected evening off in the common room, his thoughts kept drifting back to the incident outside the Headmaster’s office …

   “Get the fuck off me!” Malfoy had yelled as he vainly tried to extricate himself from under Harry’s rigid body; his rebellious body that was stubbornly refusing to move an inch, even though he was mentally screaming for it to obey. The sped-up, irregular pounding of his heart and the dizzying hot sensation that spread out from his contracted chest had him paralysed, fearing for the state of his health.

   Something was wrong, gravely wrong.

   When Harry had remained unmoving, Malfoy had laboriously crawled out from under him and stood up, brushing himself off in a very dignified manner. If it had not been for the confusing feelings swirling around within him, Harry would have wilted under the murderous glare the blonde had directed at him. “What the Hell is wrong with you, Potter?!”

   _If only I knew …_ , had been all Harry could think, but not a sound would escape his constricted throat.

   When no reply had come, Malfoy had promptly told him to piss off and left.

   He hardly knew how he had got back to Gryffindor Tower; he had been shaking and finding it hard to breathe because of his tight chest, having to stop regularly to fight off the blackness that was insisting on drowning out his vision.

   There was something wrong with him. He just knew it. Something was happening to him, and it scared him half to death that he had no idea what. Rationally, he knew that his fear was enhancing the symptoms—Hell, maybe even giving rise to some of the symptoms he was experiencing altogether.

   Angel would tell him that he was experiencing a severe anxiety attack if he consulted her about his condition, and logically he suspected that she would be right, but logic had nothing to do with fear. Fear was irrational, unfounded, instinctive. So instead of settling for the logical explanation, his mind kept spinning with possibilities of mental illness, heart failure, cancer and the like, but curses also came to mind. Because the most obvious answer was one he did _not_ want to admit.

   He was _not_ afraid of Malfoy.

   He could not be.

   He just could not be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Angel could see that something was wrong; it was in the stiffness of his drawn-up shoulders, in the glassed-over, empty stare of his tired eyes. Being as close as they were, she had always been able to tell when there was something bothering her brother, even when he was exerting himself to keep his inner turmoil hidden. This time it was out in the open, though, and Angel was not the only one aware of it.

   Everyone else seemed to believe that it had something to do with his punishment, but Angel knew different.

   Ever since the Headmaster had set him his strange task, Harry had been angry and tetchy, going up the walls at the unfairness of it all. Now he was sitting in the armchair across from Angel with a confused, anxious furrow in his brow, his mouth pressed into a tight line as if he was afraid that all his secrets would spill out if he dared to part his lips even a fraction of an inch. If he had been angry, he would have been fidgety, continuously changing positions in his seat, not sitting stone still as he now was.

   Something was clearly bothering him, and Angel wanted nothing more than to ease his worry. The problem was that she had no idea how to. Harry had always been the strong one while she had been fighting a losing battle with anxiety attacks and irrational fears. Being the dependable, loving big brother that he was, Harry had always protected her from the world that scared her so much, had always comforted her and been there for her.

   Now it was her time to protect him.

   “Calm down, Hermione, I am sure he will tell us once he is ready,” she heard Cedric saying on her left, but her eyes did not leave her brother. He had taught her that you could tell a lot about a person by observing their body language and facial expressions, so she wanted to make sure she did not miss any sign that might hint at what he was thinking about, however subtle it may be.

   “I can’t help it,” Hermione replied miserably, “I always worry about him, even when there is nothing wrong, so now that there _is_ something wrong I just can’t stop imagining a million worst case scenarios. It’s my nature. I worry.”

   “I know,” Cedric comforted with his sensible, reassuring voice.

   Harry had done so much for her and never asked for anything back; that was just the way he was. If someone he cared about was in trouble, was going through a tough time or was facing a problem he would always go out of his way to help them, regardless of the cost to himself. Angel wanted to do the same for him.

   But how could she, an 11-year-old with neither physical nor mental strength, protect him from whatever was troubling him?

   How would she even go about asking him about it? If Harry did not want to talk about something there was no use trying to pull anything out of him; he shut up like a clam.

   Suddenly, Hermione stood up, a determined expression on her face. “I’m going to talk to Malfoy. I can’t just sit here and do nothing,” she declared, but Cedric immediately grabbed her arm before she could stalk off.

   “You know as well as I do that that would only worsen the situation,” he said, and his natural rationality mollified her.

   She sat back down. “You’re right. Of course you’re right.”

   At the mentioning of Malfoy’s name, Angel thought she saw Harry twitch. It was so brief—just a spasm of the shoulders—that she was uncertain if she could trust her perception. But when Ron, who had up until then been silently lounging in an armchair by the fire, gave the others a drawn out moan of boredom and said, “Oh, stop your tiresome tirades about Malfoy already!”, Harry definitely reacted to the name.

   So it had something to do with that Malfoy, anyway? Well, if he was giving her brother a hard time it was her duty to step in somehow. Even though she was not strong or assertive or brave there must still be something she could do.

   Harry used to say that she had other strengths, like her positive outlook and her ability to put him at ease no matter how upset he was. He often said that she could make anyone smile if she only put her mind to it. So maybe that was it? Maybe she could make Malfoy smile instead, so he forgot about being mean to her brother?

   Yes, she would stay close to Harry at all times possible and distract that Slytherin boy from teasing him! He seemed to all appearances like a bully, but she was sure that there must be something good in him. After all, some people went to great lengths to hide away parts of themselves.

   The sound of mellifluous laughter sprang from Hermione’s lips so suddenly that Angel was pulled out of her silent observation of Harry. “Oh, baby!” she was saying, once more getting up from the couch she was sharing with Cedric, but this time with her arms stretched out in front of her and her previous worries forgotten.

   Angel turned around to see what had caught her attention. Ginny Weasley was coming from the girls’ dormitories with a beaming Oliver in a homemade Hippogriff costume in her arms. “Isn’t he just the cutest?” she exclaimed as she handed the little boy to his mother.

   “Oh, you are the most adorable little Hippogriff in the world!” Hermione confirmed, and nuzzled her son, whom giggled heartily. “Yes, you are—yes, you are!” She tossed him into the air a couple of times and elicited a peal of laughter so pure and exuberant that it caught on; soon the worried expressions were replaced by smiles.

   The two girls sat down, oblivious to the fact that they were forcing Cedric to scoot over and sit uncomfortably in the corner of the two-seat couch.

   Just as Angel returned her attention to her brother, the portrait hole swung open and Neville soon joined them. He was holding a navy-blue velvet drawstring bag that clinked as it swung in front of him. “I’ve the potions Noelle made for you, Harry,” he announced, and Harry actually perked up at that.

   “Cheers, mate,” he said, and happily took the bag off his roommate’s hands. He instantly opened it and withdrew a tiny bottle, unstoppered it and downed it in one gulp. Hardly five seconds went by before he sighed with relief and leaned back in his armchair. “Your sister is a blessing, Nev.”

   Neville seemed to flush a bit at hearing his younger sister praised so bluntly. He fidgeted uncomfortably. “Yes, well, she’s all right, as sisters go.”

   “Oh, she is more than all right!” Harry assured emphatically. “She’s bloody brilliant!”

   Angel was glad to see him more himself again, and she noticed that both Hermione and Cedric relaxed. Whatever had been in that potion, it had brought Harry back to the real world and he seemed to have temporarily forgotten his troubles.

   “Big family weekend coming up?” he asked Hermione after noting Oliver’s costume.

   Hermione tried not to look disappointed. “No, probably not until October,” she replied. “Daddy’s busy with his flying, isn’t he?” she added, directed at her son.

   “Dada!” Oliver said, as if confirming her statement.

   Ron left his seat by the fire and stood behind Harry’s armchair, leaning forward on the back and letting his chin rest on Harry’s head. He easily put his arms around the raven-haired boy’s neck. “It’s a shame he’ll miss the party,” he said, “it would have been fun tearing up the dancefloor with a celebrity …”

   Hermione chortled. “And what makes you think he’d want to dance with _you_?”

   Ron gasped and straightened up, putting his hand on his chest in mock hurt. “Hermione, I am positively scandalised!”

   They all laughed, even Harry, until the trill of silver bells could be heard.

   Harry pulled his mobile out of his trouser pocket and read the text. He started to get up before he had even finished reading it. “Sorry, I gotta go—have somewhere to be,” he excused himself. On his way to the portrait hole, he stopped by Angel’s armchair and ruffled her hair affectionately. “Be back in an hour or two.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco was feeling agitated and affronted after the meeting in his father’s office. The nerve of the old man! Presuming to tell him what he may or may not do with his own servant … Who did he think he was?! Headmaster or not, he should bloody well stay out of Draco’s business!

   He tried to sit down calmly with his friends and enjoy the pleasant Friday evening, but no matter how hard he tried to divert his thoughts from what had happened he just could not seem to remain still. The others soon grew tired of his fidgeting and constant repositioning, so he decided to excuse himself rather than stay there under their scrutinising, disapproving stares. No matter; he was in no mood to deal with people, anyway.

   He went up to the library, intending to spend the last hour and a half before curfew perusing some books on advanced potion making that had caught his interest earlier, but he soon found that he had no patience for reading, either. Sighing, he resorted to go out for a walk instead.

   _What is his deal, anyway?_ he thought irritably as he stalked towards the immense doors in the Entrance Hall. _Just lying there like a bloody invalid and not even apologising …_ It was a good twenty or thirty seconds before he realised that he was not thinking about his father anymore. Confused, he stopped below the staircase in the Entrance Hall, frowning.

   Where had _that_ thought come from? Admittedly, the whole thing about Potter falling on top of him and not even bothering to move so Draco could get up had infuriated him, but he sure as Hell did not care about it. Certainly not enough to brood about it.

   A group of Hufflepuff girls came walking towards him, gossiping and giggling loudly. “Did you hear?” one of them wondered excitedly as they were passing him by. “Loony Lovegood is going on a date with Harry Potter tonight!”

   Draco started.

   The rest of the girls squealed, something that would normally have him wincing and covering his ears but that for some reason did not even register with him now. “Are you serious?!” another of them exclaimed disbelievingly. “No-one gets a date with Harry Potter, and _Loony Lovegood_ scores one?!”

   That was true, Draco supposed. For all their years at Hogwarts, Potter had not seemed to be dating anyone, and there _had_ been quite a few girls trying to catch his attention …

   _Wait a minute—why am I thinking about_ this _?_ He shook himself and determinedly proceeded to exit the castle. The sun was just setting and the air was crisp and pleasantly warm for the season. He allowed his legs to carry him wherever they would, clearing his head of everything but the soughing in the trees and the sound of his footsteps on the grass. Eventually, he found himself down by the lake.

   Stopping by the water’s edge, he stooped in the gathering darkness and picked up some stones that he proceeded to throw into the water, one after the other. There was something really soothing about flinging blunt objects into the black depths of the lake and listening to the _plops_ as they sunk beneath the surface.

   He soon ran out and was just about to pick up some more when voices reached him from further up the slope. Stiffening, he cocked his ears. It was clearly a girl and a boy, and he wondered if he should light his wand to announce his presence. Then he recognised them.

   Potter and Luna.

   Then it hit him that he had overheard Luna asking Potter to go with her to the lake that evening and he silently cursed himself for letting it slip his mind. Instinctively, he withdrew into the deep shadows under a great old oak tree.

   Almost immediately after he had stepped out of view he regretted it. Why the Hell was he hiding from them, anyway? Why would it be such a bad thing if they knew he was there? It was not as if he had been following them or anything; he had just happened to be at the lake when they arrived.

   The couple—no, they were _not_ a couple, that was just a nasty rumour spread by those pesky Hufflepuffs; the mere notion was ludicrous!—appeared in the clearing approximately thirty yards to the left of Draco, looking casually comfortable in their everyday clothes. They came to a stop right at the water’s edge, and they seemed to be standing awfully close to each other.

   It was too late to announce himself now, so he resigned himself to waiting quietly behind his tree until they left. As the minutes passed by, though, it became incredibly boring to just stand there. He could not even make out what they were saying. If he was going to be there for Merlin knew how long, he might as well sneak closer so he could at least hear them properly—right? Would pass the time, at least.

   Awkwardly skulking behind a tree some ten yards from them, Draco tried to justify his impromptu eavesdropping to himself. He was only doing it to avert boredom; if he got stuck there without anything to occupy him he would fall asleep and surely catch his death. It was not as if he had any real interest in their conversation …

   “Look, Harry! There they are!” Luna exclaimed happily, and for a moment Draco’s heart jumped in fright. There were more people coming down to the lake?! What if somebody saw him? Oh, the rumour mill would have a field day! ‘Draco Malfoy caught hiding behind a tree, peeping on lovers.’

   _They’re not together_ , his inner voice reminded him.

   “Where?” Potter was asking now.

   “There! Two Gulping Plimpies, playing in the seaweed. Can you hold these while I sketch them?”

   Ah. So it had not been _people_ Luna had referred to, but _fish_. Draco exhaled in relief.

   “Sure. But, Luna … are you quite sure they’re Gulping Plimpies? I mean, I’ve never seen any in real life before, but they look like normal Plimpies to me …”

   Even though Draco could not see them, he was certain that Potter was right. Gulping Plimpies were fantasy creatures and everyone but the Lovegood family knew it.

   “Oh, no, they’re the right ones,” Luna insisted with conviction.

   Potter was silent for a few seconds, then he said, “Yeah, I see it now. They’re very pretty.”

   Draco grimaced. The prat certainly sounded as if he was on a date … And Luna clearly appreciated his trust in her judgment, because she happily prattled for the duration of their stay. An hour later, when Luna had finished her art project and they had walked off, Draco remained under his tree, wondering why he had not wanted Potter to know he was there.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was grateful for his team’s three-hour Quidditch practice the following day. Despite being exhausted from lack of sleep, the mere thought of getting three whole Malfoy-free hours had him teeming with energy. It was a great relief to be able to focus his mind on something completely different; something that would push away all the confusing and frightening thoughts for a while.

   The first hour he had them doing warm up exercises, then went on to reiterating different manoeuvers and strategies by ordering a practice game. The regular team went up against the current substitute players, and since this was their first long training session of the year he opted for focusing on his duties as Captain rather than bothering with the Snitch. He wanted to be able to see their form to figure out what needed to be addressed, what needed perfecting.

   “Cormac, don’t drag so much to the left—keep yourself centred,” he directed when McLaggen had been close to letting three Quaffles pass him into the goal hoops.

   Most of the time was spent silently watching his players or calling out adjustments to their playing style. Overall, he was quite pleased with their performance; they had not been slacking off over the summer break.

   “Ginny, you’re not passing enough!” he admonished when he noticed that she was hogging the Quaffle, perhaps wanting to show off her speed and skilful weaving. “Remember that we’re a team; this is not a sport that rewards individuality.”

   Dean and Stella Lovegood, Luna’s younger sister, were doing a commendable job as Beaters, and Cedric was on his A-game, ending up being the Chaser with the most points scored once the practice game ended. Dean’s younger brother, Linus Thomas, came in a close second. Ginny’s inability to match them just went to show that her stubbornness to do all the work herself was bringing the team down. He pulled her aside to have a private talk to her about it after the others had left the pitch.

   With practice being over, though, the feeling that something was wrong with him came crawling back, and his heart started to beat a little faster, a little more erratically. The tightness in his chest made itself known again. His head began to swim and swirl with thoughts that made no sense to him whatsoever.

   He needed to talk to someone about this. Someone who would listen without passing judgement.

   The decision was easy to make. Although Malfoy had left him clear instructions to go straight to lunch after practice, Harry instead steered his feet to Sirius’s hut down by the edge of the Forbidden Forest. If there was anyone who could offer advice without adding a patronising element to it, it was Sirius. With a little luck, Professor Lupin would be there, as well.

   When the hut came into view, Harry saw that smoke was coming out of the chimney and hurried his steps. There was no telling when the Groundskeeper would be needed, so this was a most fortunate opportunity that should not be wasted. Feeling hopeful for the first time in what seemed like forever, he eagerly knocked on the rustic wooden door.

   Sirius Black opened almost instantly, as if he had been expecting him. When he saw Harry on the stoop, he lit up and offered him his arms. “Harry, my boy! What brings you here on this lovely Saturday?” he wondered, giving Harry a hard hug.

   Harry chuckled. “I’d hardly call cloudy with a chance of rain ‘lovely,’ but that’s just me,” he said, affectionately patting his godfather’s back.

   “Ah, we all have our own perspectives,” Sirius quipped, and stepped aside to let him in.

   The budding hope and his easy smile both died the moment he looked into the hut and noticed that there was already a visitor seated at the round dining table. And as if his dashed hopes of getting to talk to Sirius alone were not enough, the visitor was none other than …

   “Ah, perfect timing for once, Potter,” Malfoy said as he put his cup down on its saucer, “I just finished my tea.” He ceremoniously rose from his chair.

   Shocked, Harry could not find anything to say.

   Sirius looked between them with obvious surprise. “So you are here for Draco?”

   Harry’s eyes snapped back to Sirius’s when the man called him ‘Draco.’ He felt as if he had just followed Alice down the rabbit hole. The world as he knew it was changing around him and he no longer knew what to think or what to believe. Malfoy was having tea with his godfather and seemed perfectly at home in the little hut. Sirius was calling him by his first name. For some reason, Harry could not wrap his head around a world in which Sirius and Malfoy were so familiar with one another.

   Without waiting for an answer, the Slytherin made his goodbye and motioned for Harry to follow him outside. Numb, he walked in silence behind the blonde until his confusion lifted somewhat and an unexpected curiosity got the better of him. “Why were you visiting Sirius?” he blurted out, quickening his steps until he was shuffling along next to Malfoy.

   The other boy kept staring straight ahead with an indifferent expression on his face. “He’s family,” was the nonchalant reply, delivered matter-of-factly.

   Harry started. “Oh.” It slowly dawned on him that that was right. “I forgot your mother is his cousin.”

   The blonde shrugged. “She’s not very fond of him, but I’ve always found him pleasant company.”

   Without quite understanding it, Harry found that piece of information intriguing. He had always been of the impression that Malfoy shunned everyone who did not live up to his social standards—especially those who did not uphold a certain aristocratic, pure-blood norm—and here was evidence to the contrary. “Do you visit him often? I’ve never seen you there before,” he went on, actually interested in hearing the blonde’s reply.

   Malfoy turned his head to meet his gaze. “I’ve always taken care to go when you’re occupied elsewhere and there would be no risk of running into you,” he explained dryly. “Usually when Gryffindor has Quidditch practice, like today.”

   That was a weird notion, Malfoy having tea with his godfather while he was busy on the Quidditch pitch.

   “What about you?” Malfoy asked, and made him jump. “How do you know Sirius?”

   _If he doesn’t know that, that must mean they never talk about me_ , Harry thought and was oddly disappointed about that. “He’s my godfather,” he nevertheless found himself saying.

   He was actually having a conversation with Draco Malfoy. What was the world coming to?

   “Oh.”

   “Yeah,” Harry agreed. “My Dad’s been best friends with him and Remus—er, Professor Lupin—since they were in school together.”

   Malfoy gave him a wry smile. “I know Remus,” he assured him. “After all, there is no way of knowing Sirius without also getting the wolf thrown into the bargain.”

   Harry was not sure he liked Remus being referred to as ‘the wolf,’ but he thought better of admonishing the blonde for it. When it came down to it, he had no idea how Malfoy had been raised and what opinions his parents might have passed on about Animagi. But since Malfoy _was_ apparently close with Sirius, his personal attitude on the subject could not be that bad.

   As if just realising that he was being _civil_ with Harry Potter of all people, the Slytherin suddenly became stone-faced again. “I have arranged a party for Blaise tonight, to celebrate his 18 th birthday, and I am expecting you to take care of the preparations after lunch,” he informed haughtily. “I expect it will take you all afternoon—the common room needs a good scrubbing down. And then you will of course stay to serve me as I see fit.”

   Harry jerked his head around to look directly at Malfoy. “But we’re having a party for Cedric tonight!” he protested.

   The Princess just scoffed at that. “Your ‘friends’ do not concern me, Potter. You will be there.”

   Harry was about to object again but wisely shut up. If he placated Malfoy there was a chance he would dismiss him early, but if he challenged his authority he was sure to keep him busy until the wee hours of the morning. Sighing, he said, “Fine. Just let me ring him and tell him I won’t be able to come.”

   The blonde watched him interestedly from the corner of his eye as he pulled out his phone and got Cedric on the line. He felt ashamed to admit that he might not be able to make the friend’s party, but he also recognised that he had no choice. Fortunately, Cedric seemed to understand that, too.

   When he ended the call, Malfoy asked him, “What is that?”

   Harry held up his Samsung. “This? It’s a smartphone.”

   The Slytherin raised a sceptic eyebrow. “A smart … phone?”

   “It’s a Muggle device that makes it possible to communicate across any distance without the use of magic,” Harry explained, and put the mobile back in his trouser pocket.

   They finally reached the castle, and Harry was relieved when the blonde reverted to his old demanding self and did not expect any more conversation. It had been draining enough to talk during the walk from Sirius’s hut. Spending six years hating each other’s guts and then suddenly have Malfoy acting almost normal with him was … unnerving.

   Unnerving, but surprisingly not unpleasant.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It felt good bossing Potter around again, almost cathartic. As if it could erase the fact that he had so recently treated him with cordiality. Why that had happened was beyond him. Conversing with _Potter_ as if he was just another one of Draco’s entourage? It was preposterous!

   No, watching Potter running back and forth with his arms full of decorations, dinnerware, snack bowls, and bottles was what Draco was supposed to do. Or watch him rearranging the furniture to create a more natural space for the party. Or watch him being heckled by other Slytherins while he was trying to decorate the dungeon as peacefully as possible.

   Yes, definitely the latter. Especially when the hecklers were first-years.

   “Draco, quit ogling the poor Gryffindor and make your move instead,” Miles finally berated him wryly and forced him back to reality. The blond, wiry Keeper was looking at him expectantly. Belatedly, he realised that he was waiting for Draco to move one of his chess pieces.

   He raised his chin self-importantly. “I was not ogling anything,” he defended his quite obvious staring, “but someone needs to make sure he’s not slacking off on the job.”

   “Of course,” Miles said, but Draco thought he detected a hint of sarcasm in his friend’s voice.

   Indignantly, Draco grabbed his queen and slammed it down on a random square rather than ordering it to move for him. “There,” he said emphatically, daring Miles to challenge him with a harsh look.

   But Miles just looked down at the chess board and said, “Check mate.”

   Draco glared down at the board. He had lost? He had _lost_?! Draco Malfoy _never_ lost a chess game! Letting out an infuriated snarl, he cried, “Potter!”

   The messy-haired Gryffindor was instantly at his side. “Yes, Master?”

   “Flip the table for me.”

   Potter blinked at him sheepishly. “What?”

   Draco shot up from his seat and grabbed the sod by the collar. “Are you questioning my order, slave?! Flip—the bloody— _table_!”

   Rattled, Potter immediately stooped and grabbed the edge of the table and with a jerky flick flipped it over, sending the marble chess pieces flying through the air with a satisfying chorus of frightened screams that soothed Draco’s heart. With a smile, he said, “Aaah, much better!”

   Once Blaise showed up, the party started. Crabbe’s father ran a firewhiskey distillery, and the good son had pilfered enough bottles to have them going well into the night. Drinking was of course strictly forbidden at Hogwarts, but a stupid school rule was not enough to deter the students from having their fun. Soon, intoxicated teenagers were dancing to crappy wizard wrock music, making out, or playing drinking games in every corner of the Slytherin common room.

   Draco and his friends, with Blaise at the centre of attention, were sitting in a ring made up of the comfiest sofas and armchairs, laughing and talking. The alcohol helped them loosen up their normally reserved nature and blurred the edges around their usual inhibitions. Where silence had once been the norm, questions were now fearlessly asked and carelessly answered, and pretty soon they found themselves in the middle of a truth or dare game.

   Draco would normally not stoop to such low levels, but with the firewhiskey running rampant through his system he participated as readily as everyone else. “Dare,” he declared when it was his turn.

   “Oh, no!” Blaise objected with a wide, drunken grin. “You’ve taken dares all evening now—you gotta tell us a secret now, man!”

   Draco took a deep swig of whiskey before replying: “That is not how the game works, my friend! Everyone gets to pick between the two, and I pick dare. So—hit me.”

   Several of the others seemed displeased with this, but their attention got diverted when Pansy suddenly burst out laughing deviously. “Oh, I have the perfect dare for you, Drakey!” she roared, her words seriously slurred by drink.

   Draco folded his arms across his chest in defiance. “Do you, now? Let’s hear it, then!”

   She fixed him with her mischievous glare. “I dare you to kiss—him,” she challenged, and her arm was pointing to none other than Potter.

   The raven-haired boy was apparently appalled by the suggestion and was staring straight at Draco in fright. His eyes were wide and disbelieving, his face burning red, his hands fisted at his sides, and his mouth hanging open in shock. He looked so ridiculous that Draco had to laugh. “Pansy, dear, _he_ is not playing,” he informed his friend superciliously. “He is not here to have fun, he is here to wait on me. It just would not be fair if the help got to join his master at the table, now would it?”

   Pansy pouted at that, but she did not oppose his decision.

   But even if Potter was not allowed to have any fun it did not automatically mean that Draco could not have fun _with him_ …

   He rose from his seat, somewhat less elegantly than usual, and sauntered up to the terrified Gryffindor. He did not stop until he was right in front of him, their bodies so close that they almost touched. Potter stared up at him in mute petrifaction. Laughing with amusement on the inside, Draco leaned down over the shorter boy until his face was a mere inch from his. Putting his left hand on the Gryffindor’s face, he murmured, “Unless you want me to, of course.”

   His friends were laughing and cheering behind him.

   Potter’s mouth opened and closed several times, as if he was trying to say something, but no sound left his thin, pink lips. Draco could hear the other boy’s breath coming out in shallow, weak puffs and he could feel the warmth of them against his skin. The crimson cheek burnt under his comparatively cold hand; heat seemed to leak from it, because seconds later Draco felt an unexpected warmth spreading from his fingers through his arm and all the way into his chest, down into his legs and up into his own cheeks.

   He became painfully aware of Potter’s softly curved lips being less than an inch away from his own, and for some inexplicable reason the back of his neck began to burn and pulsate in rhythm with his accelerating heartbeat. A stab of alarm hit him as he gazed down into the expressive, intriguing deep-green eyes that were meeting his unblinkingly.

   He had to look away from those eyes.

   “Careful there, Draco—you don’t wanna get on his girlfriend’s bad side,” the voice of one of the Parvati twins warned with an edge of amusement in it.

   He snapped his head back to look at Potter again, surprise getting the better of him. “Girlfriend?” he echoed stupidly.

   “Haven’t you heard?” Pansy wondered, scandalised that he had missed such a juicy piece of gossip. “Potter and Luna are dating!”

   Draco started. Oh, right. _Those_ rumours. Because surely they were only rumours. He did however note how neither Potter nor Luna denied it …

   Feeling suddenly fed up with everything, he turned his back on his servant and waved him off. “I’m bored with you, Potter; go to your own sorry party and put your own friends to sleep, will you?”

   He did not need to say it twice, for the Gryffindor instantly scurried off like a scared little rat without looking back.

   His friends laughed mercilessly, but Draco himself could find nothing amusing about the situation. Needing an outlet for his frustration, he uttered the agreed-upon code sentence: “This is dismal.” Without checking if his message had been received—it always was—he stalked off towards the exit. “I have something more in store to lift this evening. Keep drinking and I’ll be back with it in a moment,” he told them.

   That was a lie, of course, but by the time he was back they would all have drunk so much that no-one would remember his professed surprise. Instead, he strode all the way up to the seventh floor, his rich deep-green robes billowing in his wake, and proceeded to walk by the despicable tapestry of Barnabas the Barmy trying to teach trolls how to ballet in the left corridor. On his third passing, a door appeared in the wall opposite the tapestry.

   The room inside was simple; a luxurious, king-sized bed; a fireplace with an enormous, fluffy hearthrug; a couple of armchairs; torches that cast their flickering, warm amber light on the room. There was also a big window overlooking the Black Lake and the very edge of the Forbidden Forest, and the sill sported a wide and generous seat with soft cushions.

   Being the first one there as usual, he sat down on the edge of the bed to wait.

   He did not have to wait long before Blaise joined him, sauntering in the door with a smug grin on his drunken face. “Didn’t think you’d want a go today,” he commented and sounded quite pleased.

   Draco rose and forced a smile onto his lips. “Happy birthday,” he said emotionlessly.

   Blaise sniggered. “This is your birthday present to me?” he wondered in disbelief. “Really?”

   Draco shrugged. “Seeing as our arrangement doesn’t allow for any control on your part, I thought you might appreciate one night’s exception,” he drawled dismissively. “For tonight only, you may do as you please with me.”

   The other boy’s smile stalled as the blonde’s words began to sink in. “For real? I can do whatever I want with you?”

   He fought down the need to gag. “Yes, but keep in mind that it’s only this once. My charity only extends so far …”

   Laughing, Blaise advanced on him. Draco had to steel himself; he really did not feel in the mood for this, but he had promised himself to do this for his friend. Because he _was_ basically Draco’s best friend—or at least as close to ‘best friend’ as anyone could hope to achieve. He did not understand this sudden aversion, this sudden disgust. Before, when he had become annoyed with Potter, he had felt a strong need to vent his frustration. And Blaise presented him with the perfect outlet, so why …?

   “Even snogging?” Blaise was now asking hopefully.

   Draco rolled his eyes. “Yes, even snogging—although I don’t understand why people are so obsessed with it.”

   Blaise obviously did not need any more encouragement than that, for he instantly moved in and caught Draco’s lips with his. Immediately upon contact, Draco felt as if a powerful horse was rearing inside of him, and he had to force himself to remain still and go through the motions. He moved his lips and tongue mechanically in rhythm with Blaise, but he did not raise his arms when the other boy embraced him.

   When the kiss was finally broken, he violently rubbed his mouth with the sleeve of his robes. “I _hate_ kissing! It’s fucking disgusting!” he exclaimed. He Summoned the water jug that was standing on the side table between the armchairs and took several generous swigs before throwing it aside. Throughout this, the friend just laughed at him. He glared daggers at him and said, “Well, now that you’ve had your fun, maybe you could just get on with it? This one-time offer will run out soon.”

   So even though both his body and his mind were screaming at him to get out of there, that he did not want to do this, he let himself be directed to the hearthrug; let the other boy slowly undress him. He caressed and massaged when asked to and got down on his knees when presented with his friend’s erect manhood. This friend with whom he had had an arrangement since sixth year—this friend who was his bitch and free for Draco to use whenever he needed to let out some steam. And now _he_ was the one being used.

   It felt wrong, being controlled by someone else when he was the one who should be in control, who _needed_ to be in control. He just was not meant to submit to others; he was meant to rule, to dominate, to always be the one on top. Yet he knelt in front of Blaise and traced his cock with the tip of his tongue, just the way he liked it, before slowly, sensually engulfing it. And despite himself, his traitor body started to awaken as Blaise moaned with pleasure and unconsciously thrust into Draco’s tightly sucking mouth.

   By the time Blaise forced him down on all four and entered him, Draco was pulsating with lust. His brain was effectively shut off, his body taking over completely as the other boy grabbed him by the waist and drove deep into him, rocking their bodies and making them clash together with loud, fleshy _smack_ s. After all, it was better to give in to the physical rather than feeling the pain of a mind in uproar.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was only too happy to flee the Slytherin Dungeon after being pinned by Malfoy in front of everyone. When Parkinson had dared the blonde to kiss him, Harry had been petrified.

   Malfoy’s lips—on his?!

   His heart had sped up, running wild in his chest like a rabbit being chased down by the big, bad wolf. The memory of their fall had resurfaced, and Harry’s lips had begun to burn and pulsate in time with his elevated heartrate, as if they had once more been pressed to the blonde’s warm nape. And when Malfoy declared that Harry would not be playing, he was pretty sure that he was supposed to feel relieved to not have to endure a kiss with his enemy—but there was no relief, only a strange sinking feeling.

   As if he was _disappointed_.

   Why _the Hell_ would he be disappointed?! Not being humiliated by having to kiss The Princess was a bloody blessing!

   But then Malfoy had got up from his seat and strode over to him, coming to stand so close that Harry could practically feel the warmth of his body pressing against his. He had desperately tried to force his body to move away from the blonde, but for some reason he had been frozen in place, his breath catching and his face burning from shame and fear. His hands had become sweaty, so he had fisted them to hide it.

   Standing so close to Malfoy, staring up into his fierce, silvery eyes, it had been impossible for Harry to look away. He had tried to say something that would make the blonde go away, but no words would leave his quivering lips. Instead, he had become dangerously aware of Malfoy’s mouth being a mere inch away from his own and it had dawned on him that the blonde was actually going to do it.

   Those full lips had looked so soft, not at all like Harry’s own thin, dry ones …

   _No!_ he thought, forcefully pushing the image away. He would _not_ go down that road!

   When he stepped through the portrait hole ten minutes later, he was pretty confident that he had managed to lock away that nightmare in the Dungeons in the back of his head. And when he saw the happy faces of his friends in the midst of celebrating Cedric’s 17th birthday, which had been September 1, he cracked the first genuine smile all day.

   Cedric spotted him almost instantly and brightened even further. “Harry!” he called out, and motioned him over. When Harry was within range, the birthday boy gave him a warm hug. “I’m happy you made it.”

   Harry shrugged. “I aim to please,” he joked.

   Spending time with his friends was just what he needed. Seeing them all enjoying themselves—especially Angel—relaxed him and made it possible for him to enjoy himself, as well. It hit him how similar the Slytherins were to them; hanging out with their friends on a Saturday night, celebrating their housemate’s birthday with cake, snacks, drinks, and games. But unlike the Slytherins, the Gryffindors were only drinking Butterbeer and were, therefore, sober. Still, there were more similarities between the houses than he had previously thought.

   Stella and Ginny even initiated a round of truth or dare, but he decided to sit it out and went to refill his goblet instead. As he was pouring Butterbeer into it, he was joined by Cedric. “Not feeling like playing, either?” he asked affably.

   “Nah,” Cedric said, scrunching up his nose at the idea, “truth or dare isn’t really my thing.”

   The almost-kiss in the Slytherin common room flashed before his eyes again. Shuddering, Harry said, “Mine either.” He picked up a mini-tart from a plate. “Actually, now that I have you here … I’ve a present for you.”

   Cedric looked surprised. “A present? For me?”

   Harry laughed at his dumbstruck face. “Yeah, it _is_ your birthday we’re celebrating, is it not?”

   The other boy blushed in embarrassment. “Right, of course.”

   Harry thought his response was a little weird, but he did not dwell on it. Instead, he took out his wand and said, “ _Accio_ present.” Summoning Spells were one of his specialties, so the package came flying into his hands neatly without tumbling into any furniture or hitting any unsuspecting partiers.

   From the distinct shape of the parcel, Cedric immediately grasped what was hidden inside. His grey eyes wide, he breathed, “Harry, you didn’t!”

   Feeling a bit embarrassed and uncomfortable, Harry just made a dismissive gesture with his hand. “It’s no big deal, really …”

   Cedric opened it with great care, as if he was afraid of breaking the gift. A minute later, he was holding the latest Firebolt model in his hands, looking as if he could not believe his eyes. “Harry, this is too much,” he almost whispered, and his voice sounded thick with emotion.

   That only made Harry more uncomfortable; he had never been very good with situations like these. “Well, have to spend my allowance somehow, right? And what’s better than spending it on someone who really deserves it? I mean, Dad has so much money he doesn’t know what to do with it all and keeps giving it to us in the hopes that somehow we’ll know what to use it for,” he blathered.

   Cedric could not stop staring at his new broom. “Yeah, I guess mystery writers are well off,” he murmured.

   “Only the famous ones …”

   Without a warning, Cedric suddenly pulled him into a tight hug. Shocked, Harry at first did not know how to react, but then he slowly lifted his arms and put them around Cedric’s back. The taller boy hugged him even closer and leant forward, resting his head on Harry’s shoulder. Then, he turned his face around and whispered straight into the raven-haired boy’s ear: “Thank you, Harry—you have no idea how much this means to me.”

   And before letting up, he pressed a chaste kiss onto Harry’s cheek.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry tossed and turned in bed all night, not managing to get more than a few minutes of fitful sleep here and there. It was impossible to settle down after everything that had happened in the past couple of days; his head was swimming with confusing thoughts and his chest seemed close to bursting with feelings that he could not even define.

   First, he had—accidentally, but still—kissed Malfoy’s neck. Then Malfoy had almost kissed him—on a dare, but still. And _then_ , Cedric _had_ kissed him—on the cheek, _but still_. How could his life suddenly be so filled with lips making contact with other people’s skin?!

   He had no idea what to make of any of it.

   At slightly past 7:30 am, he gave up and dragged himself out of the bed. If this kept up he would have to ask Noelle for some Energising Potions, as well.

   Not surprisingly, Hermione was already up and in the middle of pulling a knitted jumper over Oliver’s head when he came down to the common room. “Mornin’,” he murmured, rubbing his eyes with one hand.

   She looked up at him, and as soon as she took in his dishevelled appearance her brown eyes became dark with worry. “Harry, you look absolutely terrible!”

   Harry chuckled. “Gee, go easy on the flattery, Hermione, my head might inflate,” he quipped.

   She let go of the squirming toddler and came up to him, enveloping him in her slim but strong arms. “This isn’t good for you, Harry,” she said motherly, “he’s sucking the life out of you!”

   He tried to pull away from her, blushing. “It’s not that bad, Hermione.”

   “‘Not that bad’?!” she echoed. “Look at you!”

   “I just haven’t been sleeping well, ‘s all,” he muttered uncomfortably.

   She gave him a long, hard look. “Are you sure?”

   “Yes, I’m sure,” he assured her, and hoped he sounded more convincing than he felt. The last thing he needed was for her to worry about him on top of everything else.

   Fortunately, she seemed placated by that and returned to getting her son dressed just as the portrait swung open and a stocky, dark-haired young man clad in fur-lined robes stomped into the room. “ _Mili moy!_ ” he exclaimed with a grin, opening his arms wide.

   “Viktor!” Hermione cried, her face lighting up at the sight of her fiancé, and immediately ran up to him. She slammed into his arms and kissed him so passionately Harry had to turn away. “I thought you weren’t going to be able to get away until sometime in October!”

   “I vanted to see my voman and my son,” Krum said, and then squatted down. “Vere’s my boy?”

   “Dada!” Oliver cheered, and waddled over to his parents, whereupon Krum grabbed him around the waist and raised him high up above his head. The boy laughed excitedly.

   Not wanting to intrude on their family reunion, Harry snuck past them and left Gryffindor Tower. It was nice to see Hermione so happy, and he carried that feeling with him to breakfast.

   Angel was already sitting at the Gryffindor table, so he took the opportunity to spend some time with his little sister. Since he had not had any time to help her with her transition into the life at Hogwarts, he invited her along to the library, where he would be spending the morning and early afternoon assisting Malfoy in his studies. Plus, having her there would hopefully cancel out any awkwardness that might arise after the near-kiss experience.

   The blonde did not even notice that Harry was not alone when he picked him up outside the Slytherin common room but simply stalked off in his usual, stuck-up manner, expecting Harry to follow him unquestioningly. It was not until they sat down at what was apparently Malfoy’s preferred table in the library that he registered the extra person.

   “What is _that_?” he wondered with apparent disgust when his eyes fell on Angel.

   “This,” Harry said in a tone that ought to tell the other boy to be polite, “is my sister, Angel. Since we’re gonna be here studying all day I thought I’d ask her along.”

   Malfoy glared at him across the table. “ _We_ are not going to do anything, Potter; _I_ am going to study and _you_ are going to assist me. You can’t bloody well provide me the proper attention if you are babysitting, now can you?” he snarled warningly.

   Harry met his cold, grey stare head on. This was something he would _not_ back down on; Angel was too important to him for that. “Yeah, well, you hardly give me any time off so I should at least be allowed to help my little sister with her homework,” he emphasised.

   “Well, you thought wrong,” Malfoy started but was interrupted by Angel.

   “Hi, I’m Angel,” she said with an innocent smile and reached out her hand across the table.

   The blonde was caught off guard and stared down at her little hand, seemingly wondering what he was expected to do with it.

   “What’s your name?” she asked when he neither replied nor shook her offered hand.

   He met her gaze warily. “Draco. Draco Malfoy,” he nonetheless answered.

   She gave him a beatific smile that made him jerk visibly. “That’s a really cool name! Was your mother into astronomy when she gave it to you?”

   Malfoy blinked several times, and Harry had to bite his lip not to laugh at the sight. Angel sure was doing a great job throwing him off balance—and it was hilarious to watch.

   “I … what?” was all he managed.

   “Draco—that’s from the constellation, right? The Dragon?” Angel went on, oblivious of the blonde’s disconcertion.

   “I … don’t know. I guess it’s just a family thing …”

   “Well, it’s cool, anyway. Our mother’s the Astronomy professor here, but she didn’t give us any constellation names,” Angel told Malfoy.

   The Princess did not seem to know what to say at first. “I don’t take Astronomy,” he finally muttered.

   “Oh, okay.” And just like that, Angel turned her attention to her Transfiguration homework, as if the blonde did not hold any interest to her anymore. But every time he started to get on Harry’s case again, she would surprise him with a comment or question that was so out-of-the-blue that it completely threw him off again. Harry wondered if she was doing it on purpose, but he got no opportunity to ask her about it. Still, he was grateful for her interventions.

   That afternoon he had to sit in on Slytherin’s Quidditch practice. Malfoy said he wanted him there in case he would need a towel or a drink of water, but Harry thought the real reason was to annoy him. Every now and then, Malfoy would signal him to fetch some fresh water and he did fly over to blot his face on the towel a few times, but mostly Harry was left just sitting in the stands.

   To pass the time, he listened to music on his MP3 player, but he was incredibly bored. Having to just sit there for three hours was seriously going to lull him to sleep …

   Unlike himself, Malfoy chose to incorporate the Snitch in his team’s practice game instead of focusing on the other players’ performance. Harry just shrugged that off and leant forward with his face in his hand, supporting himself with his elbow on his knee. Yawned disinterestedly. His eyes began to fall shut somewhere halfway into the session and the words in the songs did not sound like English anymore.

   A great _whooshing_ noise and a sudden strong wind hitting him straight in the face jolted him awake. Eyes wide open again, he spotted Malfoy zooming off after the Snitch right above the stands and realised that he must have just passed him by. He was lying full length on his broom, fully focused on the tiny, zigzagging golden ball. His pale-blond hair blew wildly in the wind and his green Quidditch cape fluttered in his wake.

   Harry sat up straighter and watched as the blonde chased the Snitch. He was an expert flyer, that much was evident; his movements were very elegant, spirited—almost ethereal. It was as if he had been born to fly. Even though his eyes remained locked on the Snitch at all times, he still retained perfect awareness of his surroundings. Not once did he come even close to crashing into the others, and what was even more impressive was that he always took notice of his teammates’ manoeuvers and accurately corrected their mistakes. Harry had never seen anything like it.

   Transfixed, he stood by the railing and watched the rest of the practice in fascination, taking in every movement Malfoy made. When the blonde was too far away to easily follow, he even cast a spell that made it possible for him to zoom in with his mere eyes. It was simply amazing to see him darting after the Snitch, with the uniform taut over his muscles, his cheeks rosy from the biting wind, and his silver eyes alive with the chase …

   Somehow, Malfoy seemed like a different person when he was flying. Or maybe it was just Harry seeing him in a different light. For a moment, Harry was taken in and shared the exhilaration that shone on the blonde’s face—his flying was simply that brilliant.

   _Yeah_ , he told himself, _he’s just a really good flyer. It’s only natural that I admire his skill._

   A voice in the back of his mind argued otherwise.


	5. Beneath the Surface

Monday morning, Harry woke up with a new determination. As of that day, he would not let Malfoy get to him anymore; the git was just a pain in the arse, so why should he enable his twisted need to have fun at other people’s expense?

   First off, he would put a stop to this ridiculous ‘Master’ business. Malfoy was no more his master than the house elves working in the Hogwarts kitchen. (Now, was not _that_ an analogy The Princess would love to hear?)

   He had been temporarily confused and affected by the incident outside the Headmaster’s office, which was understandable, but none of the things he had felt afterwards meant anything. Neither did any of the weird thoughts that had run through his sleep-deprived mind. He just needed to take better care of himself and keep his head level and everything would go back to normal.

   Or as normal as things could be with him playing servant to the school prat.

   He still took care to be outside the Slytherin Dungeon when Malfoy exited and carried his bag for him, but he paid no mind to the jibes that were directed at him. At breakfast, he kept a mask of indifference on his face while serving the blonde’s meal and pretended not to hear every time Malfoy tried to enforce the ‘Master’ epithet.

   It was clear that the Slytherin was miffed by his quiet rebellion, and Harry took every facial twitch, every murderous glare and every growl to heart. When the blonde’s mood dropped, Harry’s spirit rose.

   Step two was to spend as little time around Malfoy as possible and hang out with his own friends. Since first period was Potions, the blonde was insisting that he sit next to him, but seeing as that particular lesson was a lecture Harry declined and sat down next to Cedric. Slughorn’s presence acted as a shield that prevented Malfoy from shouting after him, but Harry could see that he wanted to and loved watching him seethe.

   “You seem … better today,” Cedric remarked, his grey eyes piercing into him.

   Harry gave him a knowing smile. “Yeah, decided not to let The Princess bother me anymore.”

   The other boy returned his smile. “Good for you,” he said, going silent for a while. His gaze wandered around the room and his cheeks turned a rosy pink, as if he was nervous. Then, looking back at Harry, he continued: “I didn’t like the way he got you down.”

   The raven-haired boy was a bit taken aback by his roommate’s sudden discomfiture. Unsure of how he was supposed to reply to that, he simply nodded and pretended to focus on taking notes.

   Behind them, Oliver was starting to fuss and Hermione was trying to calm him down. Her efforts were in vain, though, because the one-year-old boy merely whined louder and louder until he was outright crying. People were beginning to turn in their seats to shoot annoyed glances at her.

   Mortified, Hermione turned an apologetic, crimson countenance towards Slughorn. “Professor, I’m so sorry, he’s never like this!” she blurted, and her desperation was plain to read on her face.

   Harry felt bad for her, trying to get the small boy under control while everyone was staring at her and the professor was obviously disapproving of the disturbance.

   Across the dungeon room, Malfoy took the floor. “If by ‘never’ you mean ‘not since last week,’ then yes, you are spot on, Granger. Brava!” he commented loudly enough for everyone to hear, whereupon he performed a slow clap and elicited a wave of laughter from his peers.

   Hermione looked shamed, and that made Harry’s temper flare up. He glared daggers at Malfoy and called, “It’s not her fault Oliver is being fussy—he’s one.”

   The blonde immediately rose to the challenge. “That may be, but it _is_ her fault that she got up the duff, though, isn’t it?” he countered with a smirk.

   Harry instinctively shot up from his seat, but Cedric forced him back down onto his stool before he could stomp over to The Princess and land himself in detention. “He’s not worth it,” he whispered in Harry’s ear.

   As if the exchange between Malfoy and Harry had gone completely unnoticed by Professor Slughorn, the old teacher only squinted over at Hermione and said, “Yes, well, sort it out, Granger.”

   Unfortunately, Hermione ended up having to leave the lecture with Oliver in order to quieten him. When they were finally let out, Harry wanted to go find her and make sure that she was all right, but Malfoy would not let him go anywhere before he had escorted him to History of Magic and set up his things. By then, Harry was already late for Transfiguration and Hermione would not talk to him in class.

   It was clear that he was on the bubble in Professor McGonagall’s eyes after showing up late, and his mobile going off in the middle of class did not improve his standing. Certain that she was going to set him an extra essay as punishment, Harry could not relax all lesson. Apparently, she settled for giving him frequent reproachful stares.

   When the lesson ended, he checked the message and saw that it was from Sirius.

 

_Come down to the hut for your free period  
_ _and we’ll talk. S_

The prospect of having a private talk with his godfather kept Harry sane through the school day. Malfoy, getting increasingly more and more annoyed with his stubborn refusal to let him get to him, tried every trick in the book to force any sort of reaction out of him.

   Although he had told himself not to fall for any of the blonde’s antics anymore, Harry ultimately reached his limit when Malfoy chewed him out for being ten minutes late for picking him up from Herbology and demanded that he start leaving his classes early from then on.

   “Really, Malfoy?” he spat out when his pent up frustration finally spilled out. “Do you want me to hold your blasting prick for you when you pee, too?!”

   The blonde snorted haughtily. “That shall _not_ be necessary, thank you very much. Sorry to disappoint you, Poofter.”

   Harry gave him an incredulous look. “Excuse me?”

   Malfoy chuckled spitefully. “Oh, come on! Surely you’re not still in the closet?”

   In the … He hardly believed what he was hearing. Affronted, he said, “What, just because I’ve never had a girlfriend I must be a poof?”

   The blonde made no reply save for a knowing shrug of the shoulders. Harry was only too happy to drop him off at Arithmancy—the nerve of that bloody wanker!

   Professor Lupin was standing right outside the classroom, casually leaning against the wall with a thoughtful but pleasant expression on his face. “Hello, Harry,” he greeted once Malfoy had passed him into the classroom.

   Harry stopped in front of the professor. “Hey, Remus,” he reciprocated with a stressed smile. He had always looked up to Remus Lupin, whom always seemed so calm and in control of every situation he found himself in. Even though he was only forty-two, he possessed a confident wisdom that Harry admired; his advice was held in high esteem.

   “Everything all right?” the older man now asked with a caring tone in his voice.

   The blonde more or less answered for him when he irritably yelled for him to come unpack his bag already. The deep, defeated sigh that escaped Harry spoke volumes.

   A wry grin played on Remus’s lips. “Don’t take young Mr. Malfoy’s stunts too seriously,” he cautioned.

   “He’s a right git,” Harry muttered in protest.

   Remus put a fatherly hand on his shoulder. “Keep in mind who raised him, Harry. Not everyone is blessed with parents quite as loving as yours. Give him a chance and you may just find that you get along.”

   The raven-haired boy snorted. “Fat chance of that!”

   The professor could not help but laugh at him. “Well, give Sirius my love. Wish I could come with you, but duty calls.” He gave Harry a knowing wink before closing the classroom.

   Sirius was sitting on the stone stoop at the front of the hut when Harry came walking down the grassy slope. His shoulder-length, curly black hair was blowing lightly in the crisp pre-autumn breeze as he squinted at the bright day. Knowing that Harry would come as asked, he had a steaming mug of tea in each hand. Smiling pleasantly, he called out: “Wonderful weather, isn’t it? We don’t get many pleasant days in September these years.”

   Harry raised an eyebrow in mock inquiry as he came to a stop in front of his godfather. “Did you call me down here for small talk? That’s a bit uncharacteristic of you, don’t you think?”

   The Keeper of Keys and Grounds chuckled and shook his head emphatically. “You’re absolutely right!” He motioned for him to sit down and handed him his tea mug once they were level. “No, I wanted us to have a chance to talk since your stupefied look last time implied that you had no idea you’d find Draco here. Which means you came to me for another reason.”

   Harry started. Straight to the point, as ever. It was one of the many things he appreciated about his godfather, but it still caught him off guard at times. He looked out over the meadow. “It’s this whole Malfoy business,” he finally divulged, and he was not quite pleased with how troubled he sounded. Was not he supposed to not get affected anymore?

   “Ah.” Sirius was quiet for a while before saying anything else. “I of course heard about the conditions of the disciplinary action placed upon you. I take it you’re having a hard time with it?”

   An ironic chortle escaped him. “You could say that. Malfoy isn’t exactly known for going easy on people …” Just thinking about it made the old anger simmer under his skin again, so in order to keep his new promise to himself he decided to steer the conversation onto a slightly different path. “So … you and Malfoy have tea together sometimes, huh?” he found himself asking.

   Why he had brought that up was unfathomable; who Sirius spent time with was his business and no-one else’s. And besides … what possible interest could teatime with Malfoy hold?

   “Yes, he comes round a couple times a week, usually,” his godfather told him easily, and took a sip of his drink. “I think he really appreciates the change of pace.”

   When nothing else came, Harry turned to look at him with a frown. “How so?” he was forced to ask.

   A hint of a lopsided smile betrayed that this was exactly what his godfather had wanted him to do. _The sly bastard_ , Harry thought, but had to admire him for it. _Then again, what can you expect from a Gryfferin?_

   Meeting Harry’s gaze with an unidentifiable glint in his black eyes, Sirius said, “He doesn’t like to talk about it, but he’s had a pretty rough upbringing. Narcissa—his mother—wasn’t made for taking care of children, so she never knew what to do with him. She’s very particular about tranquillity, my cousin, and small children don’t exactly live life quietly, if you catch my drift … Of course, his father was never around so he was of no help, but being like any other boy Draco wanted his father’s attention and approval … He needed a father figure, and I did whatever I could for him, considering that my dear cousin didn’t want me around. With me, he knows he can relax; he doesn’t have to prove anything to me.”

   The silence that settled between them when Sirius felt himself done was bordering on awkward, at least to Harry’s mind. Yet, he did not know quite what to say; the revelations that had been made about the Slytherin had his head reeling with questions. He had thought he knew everything worth knowing about Malfoy, that there was nothing more to the blonde than what was right in front of him. But this …

   “How come you never told me you spend time together, by the way?” he prodded before even realising that he had opened his mouth again.

   Sirius gave him a long look before replying. “It didn’t seem wise when you always proclaim how much you hate him,” he finally said, and there was an undertone in his voice that shamed Harry.

   He had gone to Sirius in the hope of unburdening his chest, but instead he left with a heavier heart than he had carried upon arrival.

 

 

* * *

 

 

When classes were out, Draco experienced a moment of severe hesitation and uncertainty. At five p.m., the extracurricular activities began for students in third year and up, and on any other day Draco would have Potter carry his things wherever he needed to go. But Monday’s activity was different, and he was not sure he wanted his nemesis to see that side of himself.

   He therefore had a dilemma, because Potter was standing impatiently by his table in the library, looking as if he was about to crawl out of his own skin. It was quite stressful, watching him fidget and continuously switch positions; it only made Draco even more nervous and insecure.

   This was something that might cause a shift in their social standing, and even though Draco would obviously remain at the top of the hierarchy, giving Potter this particular insight into his persona would provide the prat with material with which to mock him. He did not wish to give his enemy any sort of advantage over him, however small.

   Ten minutes to five, he made his decision: he would dismiss Potter and go alone. He could not risk it.

   Losing the last shred of his patience, Potter slung his bag over his shoulder and declared: “Well, that’s it for today, then! I’ll be off before you bore me to death.”

   The blonde twitched. Did Potter just presume to dismiss _himself_? The insolence made Draco’s blood boil, and every fibre of his being reared against it. “I will inform you when your services are no longer required, _slave_ ,” he snarled between gritted teeth.

   There was nothing for it now; he had to take Potter along with him. He simply could not stand to let the sod have his way.

   He was already regretting it when they stepped out of the staircase and started up the fifth floor corridor. An icy clump was forming in his stomach; a nervous tingling shot out into every limb.

   “Where are we going?” Potter asked behind and slightly to the right of him.

   Draco immediately took cover behind his usual, well-practiced façade. “I am not at all surprised that you’ve never been to this part of the castle before, Potter,” he drawled haughtily. “I’ve never found you to be particularly … refined.”

   “Oh, you have to be _refined_ to walk down certain corridors now, do you? I’d like to know why—”

   Potter’s voice effectively died out when Draco rounded an open door and led him into the classroom. Unable to help himself, he looked back at the Gryffindor to see his reaction—and he was not disappointed. The raven-haired boy’s mouth was hanging open in utter astonishment and his green eyes were scanning the room with unadulterated disbelief.

   It was almost endearing.

   Hiding a smile, Draco called out to him: “Are you coming, or do you expect me to set up everything myself?”

   Dazed, Potter followed him to a secluded corner in the back of the room, where a lone easel was standing in front of a big window that let in the brilliant late-afternoon light. “You take _Art_?” he asked sceptically.

   Draco simply took off his black robe and hung it on a wall peg next to the big window. “I guess I should be insulted by your disbelief in my ability to appreciate and create art,” he said as he sat down on his stool and began to roll up his sleeves, “but I don’t care about your opinion of me. Now, please stop gawking and give me my art supplies. It’s the brown leather case in my bag.”

   While Potter prepared his paints and brushes, Draco fetched the canvas he was currently working on. He always kept his pieces hidden and protected by certain nasty spells while he was working on them; he hated when others saw one of his works before it was finished. Well, he hardly ever showed his paintings even when they _were_ finished …

   He gave Potter meticulous instructions on how to clean his brushes and on how much paint he should (gently) squeeze out of the tubes when Draco needed more. The raven-haired boy sat on a stool on Draco’s right, numbly taking the brushes he was handed and cleaning them while the blonde kept working on his huge painting.

   It was a motif taken from the vast grounds on which the Malfoy Manor stood; a lush, green landscape teeming with flowers, trees, butterflies, and birds, with a sparkling, sun-streaked stream running across the meadow. It had been one of his favourite places as a child; a place he often returned to in his art.

   After a while, he grew aware of Potter staring at the painting, and only then did he realise that he had let the Gryffindor not only see the piece but actually watch as he was working on it. Nervously and self-consciously, he squirmed in his seat. “Why are you staring like that?” he finally could not help but ask.

   Potter did not answer at once, but when he did, his words took Draco aback. “It’s good,” he said, and there was no sarcasm or dishonesty in his voice.

   Draco blinked at him, uncertain of what to say or how to react to the unexpected praise. For some reason, it made him feel even more uncomfortable than he imagined he would have felt if Potter had ridiculed his painting or said that his work was tripe.

   For most of the one-hour lesson, he was acutely aware of Potter’s gaze, but the longer they sat there in mutual silence, the more he was able to relax. His muscles were still stiff and he was still wary, but at least his initial anxiety about bringing Potter to Art class seemed unfounded.

   Suddenly, he felt a pair of strong hands descending on his shoulders and jumped in his seat.

   “You seem a bit tense, so I thought I’d help you loosen up a bit,” Potter was saying right behind him.

   In a moment of panic, he thought of getting up from the stool and getting far, far away from the Gryffindor, but unfortunately he was too shocked to move.

   “Just relax,” Potter instructed soothingly, as if he could read Draco’s mind. “It’s only a massage.”

   That was true, of course. And he _was_ awfully stiff …

   He decided to accept the gesture and just enjoy it; he deserved to be treated like a prince, anyway. So he put down his brush and straightened up, allowing Potter to rub his aching muscles with confident strokes. He must have done that before, because he knew exactly how to use his hands, how much pressure to use and where to focus it, where to be gentle and where to be rough …

   Soon, Draco was leaning into the touch, relaxing under those warm, experienced hands. He had not realised just how tensed he actually was, not until the knots in his shoulders were beginning to loosen. His neck felt positively rigid, as if it would refuse to bend if he tried to turn his head in any given direction. As if receiving a telepathic message, Potter let his hands slide slowly and sensuously towards his neck.

   Draco let out a muted moan when soft, hot fingertips pressed gently against the sides of his neck and lazily caressed his taut skin. Traces of tingling flesh were left in their wake, and it seemed as if not a single inch of his exposed skin was safe from Potter’s touch. It felt amazing …

   He lost himself completely and hardly even noticed when the world faded out of existence around them. His sense of touch became heightened, his nerve endings flaring and seemingly reaching out towards the other boy’s fingers, sending pleasant waves of heat through his entire body. And when Potter’s warm breath was suddenly wafting over the skin right behind his earlobe, he gasped in a sudden, jagged intake of air and was almost instantly hard, his awakened manhood pulsating with an unanticipated but equally undeniable need.

   In a voice that was exhilaratingly taunting and raunchy, Potter whispered straight into his ear, his soft lips brushing against his earlobe. “I can massage somewhere else, too, if you’d like me to …”

   Draco’s eyes jolted open, and he exclaimed “Potter!” in a chastising, scandalised tone. They were in class, for crying out loud!

   “What?” the Gryffindor asked from Draco’s right, and the blonde spun around towards the sound of his confused voice.

   Potter was sitting on his stool a few feet from Draco, in the middle of cleaning one of his brushes.

   Confused, Draco stared at him for several seconds before understanding what he was actually seeing. Then it started to dawn on him what was going on.

   Potter was on the stool—not standing behind Draco.

   Potter was swirling a brush around in a bowl of paint-removing potion, which meant he could not have been whispering seductively in Draco’s ear just now.

   He had imagined it all. That was the only explanation. For some twisted, inexplicable, horrifying reason he had just had a waking dream about Harry Potter sensually rubbing his stiff muscles … and he had _liked_ it. Had been _turned on_ by it!

   Cheeks burning in shame, he looked down as a reflex—and noticed that the part about getting hard had not been a dream. He yelped in fright and quickly crossed his legs, drawing the attention of the other students and Professor Frank Longbottom, who came over to see if Draco was all right. “I’m fine,” he squeaked, his voice cracking humiliatingly.

   Luckily, he was saved by the clock turning six, signalling the end of the lesson. Not wanting anyone—least of all Potter!—to notice his embarrassing predicament, he told the Gryffindor to go to dinner with his friends, claiming that he wanted to finish up a certain part of the painting before leaving the art studio.

   When Potter joined up with Granger, Luna, Longbottom, and the Weasley fairy, he thought he heard the raven-haired boy asking, “What was that all about?” But Draco could care less about what anyone else was thinking at that moment; he had enough to worry about, himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, Harry made sure to get a moment alone with Hermione after she had put Oliver to bed in her dorm room. His head was spinning out of control after all his new discoveries about Malfoy, and he needed his best friend to ground him.

   But instead of ventilating his confused cornucopia of thoughts and impressions, what came out of his mouth was: “Why didn’t you tell me Malfoy’s taking Art?”

   Apparently, Hermione was as baffled by the question as he felt.

   After collecting herself somewhat, she said, “I didn’t see any relevance in telling you. I mean, what does it matter to you what someone you hate does in his spare time?”

   That mollified him. “Good point.”

   They sat in companionable silence for a while, Harry with his thoughts and Hermione with a book that looked intimidatingly ancient.

   “Does he always paint landscapes?” Harry finally asked in an offhand way.

   She did not look up from her book, seemingly too captivated by what she was reading to stop. “I don’t know,” she mumbled half-distractedly, “no-one’s ever been allowed to look at his paintings before.”

   That only made Harry more bewildered.

   The following day, he was forced to adhere to the blonde’s demand that he leave his lessons early to ensure that he was on time to serve him when needed. Luckily, they only had two periods apart on Tuesdays, but Professor McGonagall scolded him unabashedly when he scurried out of her classroom, red all the way up to his ears.

   One did not mess with the Head of Ravenclaw House unscathed.

   He was still a bit chagrined when he slumped down next to Neville in DADA. “This is going to be the death of me,” he muttered, holding a hand to his pounding head. He had already run out of Painkiller Potions.

   Neville and Cedric did their best to cheer him up until Professor Snape glided over to their table in a dramatic flurry of black robes and greasy hair. Looking down his nose at them, he declared: “I have prepared a new trick for your pleasure! But … I need a volunteer—Longbottom!”

   Before any of them had time to react, he had carted off a desperately protesting Neville and brusquely shoved him into a vertically standing coffin at the front of the classroom.

   Making a swift 180 turn to face his students, Snape made a sweeping motion to the coffin and spoke over the muffled cries from Neville. “Before all you insolent brats, I—the Great Severus Snape—shall make this boy disappear … with the power of my mind!”

   Harry could not be sure, but he thought he heard Neville proclaiming that he did not want to disappear.

   The professor made a series of elaborate arm movements and uttered a string of seemingly random syllables in a grave voice. Then, he flung the lid of the coffin open so violently that it almost came unhinged.

   Inside, Neville was standing, peering out at them all in astonishment.

   People burst out in laughter all around the classroom, and Snape glared out at them in furious exasperation. Pointing a threatening finger at them, he bellowed: “TEN POINTS OFF BOTH YOUR HOUSES!”

   That lesson served to heighten Harry’s spirit, and he did not even complain when Malfoy stalled their progress towards lunch by going to the loo, asking Harry to wait outside for him. He was therefore loitering against the wall when a group of maliciously giggling first-years exited the boys’ bathroom.

   He looked after them as they disappeared down the corridor, wondering what could possibly be so funny.

   “— _tter!_ ”

   He shrugged and went back to staring off into space.

   “ _Potter!_ ”

   Someone was obviously calling for him, but he could not make out where it came from. Gazing up and down the corridor, he did not see anyone. _The Hell …?_

   “ _POTTERRR!_ ”

   Okay, that was definitely Malfoy screaming for him from inside the bathroom, and he did not sound happy. Swinging the door open a crack, he called, “I thought you said I wouldn’t have to hold your prick for you, Princess … I am disappoint.”

   “Just bloody get in here—and use proper grammar, for God’s sake!”

   Harry sighed and reluctantly moved into the room. “It’s a meme,” he informed, rolling his eyes.

   “A what?”

   “Never mind. What can I do for you, oh most majestic Master?” He made no effort to hide his bored, scornful tone.

   It was quiet in the stalls for so long that Harry actually started to wonder if something was wrong. He was just about to ask if Malfoy was okay when the blonde spoke up again: “There’s no toilet paper.”

   Harry exhaled a breath he had not realised he had been holding and was confounded by the relief he felt. Of course it would be awful if something bad happened, even to Malfoy, but he did not care about the bloke, so why should it worry him like that?

   “Today, Potter!” the blonde was now yelling furiously. “This is bad enough as it is without you letting me sit here so you can have a laugh!”

   He was jolted out of his pondering and immediately began to look for some paper. “I wasn’t having a laugh,” he told the blonde in a defensive tone of voice. He checked all the other stalls, but the mischievous first-years had apparently been thorough and stolen away all the rolls.

   Next, he checked all the sinks and the bins, but there was not a single square of paper anywhere. “Sorry, Malfoy, gotta go fetch some paper from another bathroom—some kids have played a prank on you and taken all the rolls.”

   “ _What?!_ ” Malfoy shrieked, his voice cracking comically. “Bu-but you can’t leave me here! What if you don’t come back?!”

   He fought to keep a straight face, but it was the hardest thing he had done in his life. “I won’t leave you here, Malfoy. I’ll be back before you know it, so just … sit tight, okay?”

   “‘Sit _tight,_ ’ eh? Very funny!”

   The Slytherin was fuming after that little incident and picked on Harry relentlessly to make up for his lost dignity. Getting fed up with the maltreatment, he therefore snuck off after his last-period Herbology lesson and hid in the Dungeon room dedicated to the Potions Club instead of shadowing Malfoy to his Quidditch practice. That way, he could hang out with Noelle while at the same time getting some help with his Potions homework.

   Two birds with one stone and all.

   “Here to order a hit?” she wondered when she came over to his table.

   He frowned at her in confusion. “Wha’?”

   She laughed at his dumbfounded expression and sat down across from him. “Judging by the cute little rain cloud above your head, I’m guessing Princess Malfoy is giving you a hard time,” she elaborated, and gave him a knowing grin. “If you need him to go away, I can make that happen—just saying.”

   He was not sure if he should laugh or be just a little bit afraid of her. Forcing out a faint smile, he said, “Thanks for the offer, but I think I’m fine.”

   She straightened up in her chair but kept her impish air. “Let me know if you change your mind.”

   When she prepared to leave, he reached out his hand and grabbed her wrist. “Wait a moment,” he begged. “I actually came here for a reason. I … sort of ran out of Painkiller Potions …”

   Noelle chuckled and shook her head at him. “I’ll cook up some more for you, I’ll be here all evening anyway.”

   Noelle was the Head of the Potions Club and spent most of her spare time tutoring other students of all ages, sometimes even on weekends and holidays. She had a natural affinity for potion-making and an accompanying passion for the art. Harry often wondered if she ever did anything just for fun; between schoolwork, Quidditch, and the Potions Club she could not be getting much time to herself.

   He therefore felt bad about adding yet another favour to the already growing list. “I kinda need help with this potion for tomorrow, too …”

   She continued to set up her cauldron while replying to him: “Let’s have a look at it, then.”

   “You sure?”

   “Yeah, I can do two things at the same time,” she assured him. Just then, a potion exploded in another corner of the big room, and Noelle immediately got up from her stool. “Make that three!”

   Harry left the Dungeon at ten to six, much happier than he had been before. Spending some time with Noelle had been a good idea; her ‘no fucks given’ personality was always refreshing.

   Unfortunately, Malfoy was of a different opinion. When Harry went outside to meet up with him, the Slytherin came storming towards him with a face redder than the Devil’s rear end. He crashed right into Harry’s personal space and towered over him, taking a firm and intimidating grip on the shorter boy’s shirt collar. “Where—the Hell—have you been?!” he bellowed.

   Harry instinctively took a step backwards, but the blonde followed, not letting him get away. “I-I was just in the Potions Club,” he stammered out, “I’m not good with Potions, reme-member? Noelle helped me—”

   “And who the bloody Hell is Noelle?” the blonde demanded violently, shaking him a little.

   “Noelle Longbottom—she’s the Head of the Potions Club …”

   That explanation did not seem to sit well with Malfoy. “So you think some scrubber is more important than performing your duties?!”

   When the Slytherin called his friend a scrubber, Harry snapped. He could take vile names and unfair accusations being directed at him, but when someone attacked his friends he could not just stand idly by and let them get away with it. He thus pressed his right hand into a tight fist and swung it straight at the blonde’s face.

   It connected with Malfoy’s left cheekbone and travelled up into his eye, flinging his head backwards at the sudden impact.

   Unprepared for the pain that shot through his hand, Harry cursed and cradled it in the crook of his arm. It hurt like Hell—but it was worth it.

   That bloody sod deserved it. And not only did he get to tell Malfoy himself that, but he also got to defend his case in front of the Headmaster. The Prick made it very clear that this was the first and final warning Harry would be given; if he failed to uphold his end of the deal that allowed him to stay enrolled at Hogwarts, he would be expelled without notice. But in Harry’s book, it was still worth it.

   Later that evening, when the adrenaline had left his system, he recognised that what he had done was wrong; it did not matter that Malfoy had been a total dickhead. So it was with a heavy heart that he walked up the winding staircase of the Astronomy Tower for his mother’s class.

   She instantly noticed how troubled he was and communicated a wish to talk to him through a long, expressive look. He nodded and endured the lesson in silence.

   Once the other students had left, they stood side by side, looking out over the dark grounds. “I understand why you did it,” his mother said softly before he even had time to collect his thoughts.

   His heart sank even further. “You heard.”

   She looked at him with a lopsided smile. “Nothing can be kept secret in this castle,” she stated.

   For a long time, they just stood there in companionable, familiar silence. It soothed Harry, being close to his understanding mother, a person who never judged him or put unreasonable expectations on him. Who simply gave him room to be himself and who loved him unconditionally for who he was.

   “You know that you have to apologise to him,” she finally said. “It’s the right thing to do.”

   Harry sighed. “And the right thing to do is always the hardest,” he muttered, quoting one of Lily Potter’s favourite adages.

   She pulled him into a warm, loving hug. “I’m glad you understand that. Maybe I didn’t do such a bad job raising you, anyway.”

   He laughed. “No, you did a brilliant job.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Burning with hatred, Draco stalked up to the Prefects’ bathroom on the fifth floor in the Hospital Tower with the intention of soaking away his humiliation. Madam Pomfrey had managed to arrest the swelling and fade the bruise, but he was still very obviously sporting a black eye. She had promised him that the last trace of the injury would be gone by morning, but he did not know if he could trust that.

   A nice bath should make him feel better.

   However, when he walked into the expansive room with only a fluffy towel around his waist, he stumbled upon the Weasley fairy doing the dirty with 6th-year Theodore Nott.

   Crying out in shock, he quickly turned his back on the pair. “For Merlin’s sake, Weasley!” he exclaimed, and his gag reflex set in.

   “Malfoy, join us!” the ginger called to him suggestively.

   Draco’s innards twisted at the perverted giggle that followed. “Over my dead body,” he croaked out. Then he made to leave, but stopped just short of the corridor leading to the changing rooms and turned back to look at his younger housemate. “Really, Theodore, I thought higher of you. The school slut? Have some self-respect, man.”

   No relaxing bath for him that evening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Wednesday afternoon saw the year’s second Care of Magical Creatures lesson, but more than anything, Harry was looking forward to two whole hours away from Malfoy. It had been strained and awkward between them since Harry punched him, yet he could not find it in himself to apologise for it. He still thought that the Slytherin deserved that hit, but he also knew that it was wrong to hurt people—even if they were knobs.

   Professor Rubeus Hagrid, a very special fellow, was directing the assembled students to a paddock at the edge of the Forbidden Forest, albeit with some difficulty due to his slight size. But as always, what he lacked in height he made up for with his boisterous, loud, and brusque personality.

   In the paddock, a flock of Thestrals were running around at play, and a couple of the students exclaimed in fright at the sight of them. Harry, who was familiar with Thestrals, brightened and ran up to the fence to have a closer look. Luna soon joined him, leaning her head against his shoulder. “Aren’t they beautiful?” she said dreamily.

   “Yeah,” Harry agreed. Although most people who had ever seen the creatures found them vile, scary, and dangerous-looking, he did see a certain majestic beauty in their sleek, powerful bodies, glossy, translucent coat, and leathery wings. They were incredibly intelligent creatures.

   “What is?” Cedric wondered on Harry’s other side, and squinted off into the distance. “I don’t see anything.”

   “Oh, you can only see them if you have witnessed death,” Luna told him matter-of-factly. “It’s a shame, really.”

   Cedric frowned. “It’s a shame I haven’t seen anyone die?”

   Before an argument could break out between Luna and Cedric, the little professor came pressing through the throng of students. “Comin’ through, comin’ through!” he rumbled with that deep bass that seemed so improbable for such a tiny man. He did not wait for people to actually step aside, either, but simply blustered on, not caring if he pushed people or made them lose their balance. It was said to be an inherent trait in people of Goblin descent, and if that was true, Hagrid was a perfect example of it.

   As the professor began his lecture about Thestrals, it became more and more obvious to Harry that most of the people assembled there could not see the beasts. He was more fascinated by their bemused looks than by the creatures themselves.

   “So, who have you seen die?” Cedric asked with ill-disguised curiosity.

   “My uncle,” Harry replied. “Or, well, my aunt’s husband. He died three years ago. Cancer.”

   “Grandparents,” Luna said with a vacant expression in her grey eyes. “Lots of ‘em.”

   Once again, Cedric frowned a bit apprehensively. “I’m sorry to hear that …”

   There was some commotion behind them, so they all turned to see what was going on. Apparently, Ron had grabbed onto Jeremiah Smith, Zacharias’s identical twin brother, and was begging him to protect him from the ‘scary beasts.’

   Next to them, Hermione let out a disgusted snort. “Ronald, seriously … You can’t even see them, stop being such a baby!”

   He gave her a shrewd, coquettish smile. “Never stopped a girl from trying, has it?”

   “Shut yer traps back there unless yeh wan’ me ter feed yeh to the Thestrals!” Professor Hagrid thundered from on top of a fence post, one hand waving threateningly in the air and the other patting the neck of a gigantic Thestral stallion. His long, unkempt, bushy hair and beard were flying every which way in the wind, yet there was nothing his beady black eyes did not catch.

   Despite his only being 3’6” and almost two feet shorter than the shortest girl, there was not a single student at Hogwarts that did not have the deepest respect for Hagrid. Mostly attributed to the fact that he was a bit mad.

   “Now,” the professor continued once it was quiet again, “I’d like yeh all to come up here—one by one, mind—and make yerselves familiar with ol’ Crassus here. Come on, we haven’t all day! Finnigan!”

   Seamus warily stepped up to the fence, and judging by the way he looked in the complete opposite direction of the Thestral it was quite clear that he could not see it. Hagrid, standing vigil on his fence post, had to direct his hand to Crassus’s flowing, black mane and bony neck, and Harry chuckled at the appalled expression on the Hufflepuff’s face when he felt the sleek, slippery skin under his fingertips.

   The lesson went by in the same fashion, with Luna and Harry being the only two people completely comfortable around the grand beasts. Hagrid was even so pleased with them that he dismissed them early. They talked animatedly about the experience all the way back to the castle, where Malfoy was evidently waiting just outside the big doors to the Entrance Hall.

   Right before they got within earshot of the blonde, Luna turned her dreamy, discerning gaze on him and said, “It’s a shame you didn’t join Slytherin. I think you would have liked it.”

   Harry did not quite know what to say to that, so he pretended not to have heard her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Without quite understanding why, he was rather displeased at seeing Luna walking next to Potter in amicable conversation. Lately, it was as if every time the blasted Gryffindor was left to his own devices, he went and consorted with Luna.

   Not that Draco disliked Luna in any way; oh no, quite the contrary. He counted her among the incredibly few and lucky people who got to call themselves his friends, a privilege he did not bestow on anyone unworthy of the title. She was ambitious, determined not to let anything stand in the way of what she wanted, and in possession of a greater supply of slyness than any other Slytherin girl.

   Many people misjudged her aloof, eccentric exterior and were blinded by her talk of fantasy creatures, not bothering to look beyond the obvious to discover the treasure trove hiding beneath the surface.

   She knew exactly what she was doing, at all times.

   So what was it that she wanted out of Potter? And why was he so willing to give it? Because there was no way he was oblivious to her true nature; they spent way too much time together for him to remain in the dark. Well, unless he was stupid.

   Shaking himself out of his disturbing line of thought, Draco raised his chin and looked down his nose at the approaching figures. “Took you long enough, slave,” he muttered haughtily.

   “Apparently so long that you even came out to meet me,” Potter countered sarcastically as they walked up the stone steps.

   Draco tossed his head. “I needed some fresh air,” he informed them dismissively, and promptly dumped his heavy book bag in Potter’s arms. Without so much as a glance back, he stalked up to the big doors and flung them open, confident that his servant would follow.

   Silence reigned until they were halfway up to the seventh floor.

   “Oh, do you think we could study together tomorrow—at the library—all three of us?” Luna suddenly blurted, and made Draco jump.

   He had not even been aware of her still being there.

   His mouth formed words without his brain’s consent: “No, not happening.”

   “Yeah, sure,” Potter said at the exact same time.

   Draco was shocked. He had had no intention of shooting down Luna’s suggestion, yet a strange burning, nagging feeling in the pit of his stomach told him that he did _not_ want to study together.

   With Potter there was no hesitation whatsoever; even if the Gryffindor was the last person on the planet he would not sit down to engage in _any_ activity with him. The humiliation of being punched in the face was still fresh and simmering in his veins.

   But why did not he want to study with Luna? She was his friend, one of very few people who did not get on his nerves every five minutes …

   “Oh, come on, Draco!” Luna was saying now, playfully tickling his left side—his secret weak spot! Oh, that devious little …! “Say you’ll study with us!”

   A bubbly, buoyant laugh that was completely uncharacteristic of him burst forth from his mouth and he fruitlessly tried to squirm away from her long, dexterous fingers. “No, no, no!” he breathed in between bouts of laughter. “Okay, I’ll study with you, I’ll study with you—just stop!”

   Satisfied, Luna withdrew her demon hands and crossed her arms over her chest in triumph.

   “You’re a monster,” Draco accused, but the corners of his mouth were still twitching with mirth.

   She sketched a bow. “Why, thank you! I’m here all year.”

   “Yeah, that’s what scares me.” He held a hand to his recently accosted left side and straightened up, noticing that Potter was smiling wryly at the scene. “What are _you_ staring at?” he therefore demanded, but his voice cracked slightly on ‘you’ and cancelled out the threatening tone he had used.

   To retain some degree of dignity, he pointedly turned his back on them and walked the rest of the way to Arithmancy, the last lesson of the day. Luna sat next to him and tried to chat him up, but he stubbornly ignored her—and anyone else insolent enough to address him.

   He did not understand why the whole thing bothered him so much, and he hated when insights eluded him. Whenever he could not find the answer he was seeking, his mind got stuck in a loop, chugging the same inane thoughts over and over. Pretty soon, he had wasted the entire lesson on futile contemplations.

   Wednesday afternoon meant that they had Muggle Sports with Professor Riddle before dinner, and if Draco’s performance had been poor last week it was nothing compared to how mortifyingly dismal he was doing this time. Riddle had them playing something called ‘tennis,’ and even though the basics of it seemed simple enough, Draco could not hit the ball for his life. Every time he swung his racket, he missed the little ball and was close to falling over more often than he would care to admit.

   Just like the previous week, the other students were laughing at him and shouting jibes, particularly the Muggleborns and the half-bloods that had been brought up with at least some Muggle culture. He was beginning to understand that most of the people drawn to this class were already familiar with these types of sports; the only other people who seemed flummoxed were his fellow Slytherins. But even they were adapting better than him!

   By the end of the lesson, he was positively boiling with anger and humiliation. _That is_ it _!_ he thought fiercely. _I will_ not _be made fun of anymore!_

   With determination, he went straight up to Potter, who was on his way to the changing rooms and was thankfully alone. “You will teach me,” he asserted, cutting the Gryffindor off.

   Potter frowned at him in confusion. “I—what?”

   “This, these—‘Muggle sports,’” Draco elaborated. “You will teach me, privately, preferably at night when no-one else is around to snoop. You will teach me each sport in advance, so that I won’t make a fool of myself during the lessons. It will be another one of your duties as my servant.”

   The raven-haired boy raised his eyebrows in incredulity. “Are you having a laugh?”

   He was starting to get impatient. “No, I am dead serious. I cannot do poorly in any subject I take, even if it is just extracurricular. I have a reputation to uphold.”

   A contemptuous snort escaped the Gryffindor. “So quit, then.”

   Draco was appalled at the very idea. “I can’t just quit! That would be the same as admitting defeat! Malfoys do _not_ admit defeat—ever.” He took a step closer for intimidating effect. “You _will_ teach me, Potter. Or have you already forgotten the conditions for your staying here?”

   For a moment he thought that Potter was going to push back, but then the shorter boy sighed and gave in. “Fine. I’ll go ask Tom for the curriculum.”

   Sneering, the blonde said, “Brilliant. We’ll start tonight, so you’d better prepare.”

   They reconvened on the Quidditch pitch at 8:30 p.m., half an hour after the last scheduled activity had ended. Potter had been given a copy of his cousin’s plans for the first term as well as been instructed in how to enchant the pitch according to their needs.

   The Gryffindor informed him that next week’s lesson would be on something called ‘basket balls’ and turned the grassy pitch into what he called a ‘basketball court.’ Testing out the hard, almost rubbery surface with his foot, Draco began to wonder if he had bit off more than he would be able to chew. He would never admit that aloud, though.

   For the next couple of hours, Potter painstakingly explained the rules of the game and showed him how to play. Getting the right bounce in the big ball proved harder than it looked, and remembering not to run with the ball held fast was nearly impossible. But Draco was adamant; he _would_ learn and show those twats in class that he could be good at sports.

   Well after curfew, they prepared to make their way back to the castle. As he erased the evidence of their being there, Potter looked over at Draco surreptitiously. “I’m sorry,” he finally said, fidgeting nervously. “You know … for punching you.”

   The apology took Draco by surprise. It took him a few seconds to recover. Then, he turned away from the Gryffindor so as not to reveal that he was flushing. “Apology accepted,” he muttered uncomfortably.

   Upon returning to the castle, they entered through a side entrance in a more remote wing to avoid drawing attention to themselves. Having strained a muscle in his right shin during the basketball practice, Draco lagged behind and was not paying much attention to anything but the exhaustion and the dull, aching pain.

   He would ask Madam Pomfrey for a remedy in the morning.

   Suddenly, Potter grabbed onto his arm and forcefully pulled him into a dark, narrow side corridor. “What are—”

   “ _Shhh!_ ” Potter mouthed, and nodded out at the main corridor.

   Apparently, the school caretaker, Argus Filch, was shuffling by in the torch-lit hallway with his characteristic forward-leaning, bobbing strut. He looked like a crane with those long, bony legs and the big, beaklike nose.

   Draco rolled his eyes. “You do realise I am the son of the Headmaster? I can roam this castle whenever and however much I want,” he whispered to Potter as the caretaker ambled out of sight.

   He could see the whites of Potter’s eyes glimmering in the darkness, reflecting what little light reached them in the cramped space. “I acted on instinct, okay?” he defended his action. “I don’t like Filch. He’s … creepy.”

   Draco scoffed. “He’s nothing compared to his wife,” he commented.

   Potter actually snickered. “You got _that_ right.”

   Once the coast was clear, Draco relaxed. He realised that he had been tensing his muscles even though he had not even been worried about getting caught out of bed, and when he forced his muscles to relax again he in turn realised that Potter was standing awfully close to him. The raven-haired boy’s body was pressing against his, transferring its heat as if the bastard was a radiator.

   While his focus had been on the torch-lit corridor, Draco had not noticed just how cramped their quarters were, or just how close they actually were to each other. When Potter had so hastily pulled him in there, he must have wound up halfway into his arms.

   He could hear the other boy’s breaths mere inches from his ear, almost close enough to _feel_ them. His throat dried up, giving him a thick feeling and an annoying need to swallow hard. His pulse quickened, and his entire body began to tingle and reverberate with an inner excitement that made his skin burn. He was struck by a sudden impulse to move his hand just a little bit to the right and touch the other boy, brush against his arm or his hand; longed to feel the electrifying sensation of skin upon skin.

   And as his breathing became deeper, he had to use all his willpower to prevent his own face from turning towards the Gryffindor. He was certain that the other boy was close enough for their noses to touch if he but turned around a little, or maybe even …

   Maybe what?

   He was almost afraid to breathe, as if Potter would instantly know what was happening to him if he so much as made one single sound.

   Because there was no mistaking what this reaction was; he had experienced it enough to accurately recognise it. And it scared the shit out of him.

   He was attracted to Harry Potter.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who use the metric system:
> 
> 3’6” = approx. 107 cm.


	6. A Study in Attraction

 

Sleep. An underrated bliss that was taken for granted but not always given. Dreamless and restful sleep even more so. That was something that Draco experienced first-hand that night.

   His chest was full to bursting when he left Potter in that corridor and fled to the safety and familiarity of Blaise’s willing body. He had never before in his life needed to feel in control as much as he did that night; no matter how you looked at it, Draco had momentarily relinquished control, feeling as if he had lost a part of himself in the process.

   He had no idea how long they had been standing there, pressed up against each other in the dark, neither of them moving or making a single sound. What he did know was that for every shaky second that ticked by, his dangerous impulse to reach out and touch—or grab?—Potter had grown stronger and stronger. In fact, he had snapped out of his temporary reverie when he realised that he had begun to slowly raise his hand.

   Thinking back now, he was not proud of it, but all he had been able to croak out was “Dismissed, Potter” before he had taken off with his heart beating frantically in fright.

   That moment had scared him more than he cared to admit, and he had deluded himself into thinking that burying himself in mindless domination games would erase whatever had happened between him and Potter. That it would serve as a protective shield and somehow reinstate the power that he had lost.

   Boy, had he been wrong.

   When he had finally managed to fall asleep—when his mind was too exhausted to keep up its stubborn churning any longer—he had plunged right back into the abyss. He had felt Potter’s body pressed up against him again, heard his shallow breathing, caught the glint of his eyes staring back at him in the darkness …

   But this time, there had been no resisting the urges surging through his boiling veins. Ignoring his furiously screaming mind, he had lifted his hand until he felt the soft fabric of Potter’s awful Muggle jumper brushing against his fingers. A pleasant shiver had passed through him when he felt the solid muscle underneath, and his hand had slowly travelled up the other boy’s arm, marvelling over every dent and curve.

   Potter had gasped when Draco’s fingertips had found their way to the exposed skin of his neck, but he had not stepped away or lashed out at the blonde in affront. Encouraged, Draco had continued his tactile exploration until he was cupping the left side of Potter’s face. It had felt just like during the Slytherin party, when the Gryffindor’s cheek had been burning against the palm of his hand and transferred its heat into every nook and cranny of Draco’s body—

   —and suddenly they had been surrounded by intoxicated Slytherins shouting “Kiss him! Kiss him! Kiss him!” as if they had been back at the truth or dare game. Throwing caution to the wind, he had stepped up to the challenge and leant down until his lips met Potter’s. For a short, shuddering moment, he had been afraid of being rejected—and then Potter had kissed him back.

   He had woken up painfully hard and burning with shame.

   His cheeks were still flushing with humiliation now, as his mind wandered back to the dream while Professor Flitwick was droning on about some redundant charm or another.

   It was preposterous! He wanted to jump _Potter_?! Of all the asinine people in that school, the one person that got his juices flowing of course had to be the very prat he hated the most … Was his own body taking the piss out of him? He wanted nothing to do with that bloody Gryffindor—and his body was _lusting_ after him?!

   He let out a frustrated groan and buried his face in his arms.

   “You doing all right there, mate?” Miles wondered next to him, gazing at him from under his long, dark-blond fringe. His blue-green eyes were boring into Draco, as if they could pick out every little detail of his very soul.

   “Yeah, you’ve been acting weird all morning,” Pansy agreed with an unflattering frown.

   Goyle grunted his concurrence on her left.

   “Fuck off,” he muttered sullenly.

   Pansy raised both arms in a disarming gesture and turned back to her notes, but Miles was unfortunately undeterred. Leaning in closer to Draco, he whispered conspiratorially: “If you’d been into those things, I’d have thought you had lady problems …”

   Draco flung up his head so quickly the room started to swim and sway around him. “Hey! I’m into … things,” he protested in an offended tone. “I’m just …” Bent. “Picky.”

   The door to the classroom was slammed open and a tall, black-haired, heavily made-up girl with a skimpily shortened skirt and her Slytherin tie hanging loose and askew around her slim, tan neck stomped in on designer stilettos. “I’m back, bitches!” she declared, and fired off a mean-girl grin at her classmates.

   Pansy let out an ear-splitting shriek and shot up from her seat. “Ohmygoblin, ohmygoblin—Auriola!” she exclaimed happily, and ran up to properly welcome her best friend back with girly giggles and lots of cheek kissing.

   Draco, on the other hand, groaned and face-palmed. “Oh no, not _her_ , too!” he complained, reflexively wondering why God thought he needed even more bollocks to deal with.

   Auriola Prince was the number one party girl of Slytherin House—probably of the entire school—and always caused trouble for the people around her. She hated studying and was easily bored, and her favourite pastimes seemed to be playing nasty pranks on unsuspecting Hufflepuffs and mooning after Draco. Since she was Snape’s niece, she had got this crazy idea that they were destined to get married ‘because they were practically family already.’

   Draco hated her, almost as much as he hated Potter.

   And just like that, his train of thought had rolled into Harry Potter Station again. He only listened with half an ear as Auriola bragged to Pansy about her ‘fabulous’ vacation with her mother in Florida and Flitwick, in vain, tried to stop them from disrupting his lecture. At last, the little man threatened to get ‘his man Hagrid’ in there and finally shut them up.

   When the lesson finally ended, Draco heaved a sigh in relief.

   That was a bit too soon, it proved, for in the next second Potter was standing at his side. Draco’s heart stopped at the sight of the messy-haired Gryffindor and he could practically feel the colour draining from his already pale face.

   How was he supposed to act now? What if something in his expression or in his body language betrayed his forbidden thoughts—or, even worse, the atrocities he had almost committed the previous evening? And what if, God forbid, he had another … episode?

   It would mean the end of his reputation.

   Looking at Potter surreptitiously from the corner of his eye, he noticed that the Gryffindor was behaving rather awkwardly, as well. He was swiftly and sort of jerkily collecting Draco’s possessions from the table, careful to stay well out of touching range and pointedly avoiding eye contact.

   Could it be that he already knew? Had he perchance sensed something last night, a slight movement of Draco’s as he was desperately trying not to grab onto him?

   Another thought hit him with the power of a Stunning Spell. What if he in fact _had_ touched Potter’s hand or something? It was possible that a twitch of the arm or a slight shift in position had resulted in accidental contact … Considering the state he had been in at the moment, Draco probably would not even have noticed.

   _Wait just a minute!_ his inner voice told him indignantly. _Why on Earth are you wasting time on these ludicrous idiocies? You are Draco Malfoy! You’re the sole heir of the most distinguished wizarding family in Britain and the bloody Headmaster’s son—who the fuck cares about Harry Potter?! That prat’s sole purpose is to serve you, so make him bloody grovel at your feet!_

   Draco shook himself. He was right. Of course he was right; he was the only person at Hogwarts who mattered, and he would not let some plebeian throw him!

   After reaching that conclusion, he successfully returned to his old self and entertained himself by setting various degrading tasks on his servant. He even put a handy little spell on Potter that would allow him to remotely let him know when his services were needed.

   The day passed quite pleasantly in that manner until they were walking through the Dungeons to their mutual double Potions. A commotion up ahead caught his attention.

   A ring of students seemingly consisting of their fellow 7th-year Slytherins and Gryffindors and the 6th-year Ravenclaws and Gryffindors that had just come out of their own Potions class was clogging up the corridor. It seemed like something was distressing them, maybe even scaring them. Carelessly elbowing his way into the throng, Draco spotted the source of their apprehension.

   In the middle of a ring of frightened students, Albus Dumbledore was standing, wild-eyed and tattered, threateningly brandishing his wand at them. His long, white hair and beard were matted, greasy and unkempt, and his robes were hardly more than food-stained strips of cloth hanging loosely on his famished frame. He was clearly suffering from paranoia, for he was sputtering disjointed nonsense about people trying to incarcerate him.

   Draco looked on in absolute disgust.

   “Oh, no!” Hermione Granger was exclaiming from the opposite side of the circle. She ran up to the old man, her face a kaleidoscope of emotions; surprise, worry, shock, outrage, mortification. “How could they give him his wand?!”

   It was clear that she was very upset when she struggled to get the ancient wizard to relinquish his weapon. He began to shout and tried to fight her off, obviously not recognising her.

   The blonde finally found his voice. “Good lord, Granger—keep a leash on your grandfather, will you?”

   She glared up at him with murderous eyes that were starting to tear up. “It is not his fault that he has Alzheimer’s!” she declared.

   Draco laughed darkly and shook his head at it all. “Remarkable. Trying to push the blame away by using made-up words. Just remarkable, Granger.”

   It was so laughable that it kept his spirits up for the rest of the day.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry felt more lost than he ever had before. He had no idea what the bloody Hell was happening to him, and he had no idea who to consult about it, either. All he knew was that the blonde instilled a new form of uneasiness in him whenever he had to deal with him, and the further into the day they got, the more anxious he became. Eventually, he realised that he was dreading the scheduled study session that would follow.

   It was one thing to trot along a few steps behind the Slytherins and attend to Malfoy in between classes but quite another to sit down with him in close quarters without any means for escape. He got an indication of how that might turn out during their Potions lesson. They were starting on their Polyjuice Potions and had to work rather closely together, a fact that ended up with Harry dropping ingredients, jumping in his seat every time Malfoy opened his mouth, and almost cutting off his own thumb—twice.

   By the end of the lesson, Luna was talking excitedly about the study session and it was making Harry feel sick to his stomach. When Slughorn finally let them out, he apologised to Luna and told her he would catch up, then he rushed out of the classroom in a panic.

   He took his refuge to the nearest bathroom, convinced that he was going to throw up, but he just ended up sitting there hyperventilating.

   As soon as he felt somewhat steadier, he washed his face with cold water from the sink and staggered out of the bathroom.

   _I can’t do this_ , he thought shakily. _I have to talk to someone about this._

   Hoping that Hermione would be in the common room, he hurried up to Gryffindor Tower but was careful to stay away from any areas where he might run into Malfoy or Luna. Unfortunately, Hermione was nowhere to be found, and he cursed under his breath.

   “Harry?”

   He swirled around and found Cedric coming down from the boys’ dormitories. His grey eyes were gazing down at him with a quiet concern. “Is something wrong?”

   Harry debated whether or not to confide in Cedric. He did not doubt that the other boy could keep a secret, or that he was capable of giving sound advice; it was just that Hermione was his go-to person. “I … I don’t know …”

   Cedric went over to the couch by the fire and motioned for Harry to sit down with him. “It’s all right,” he said in a low, reassuring voice, “you can talk to me. About whatever.”

   Harry nodded. Taking a deep breath, he decided to just go for it. “Cedric … have you ever … felt something you’re not supposed to feel?” he asked, and seeing his friend’s baffled expression realised that he needed to explain himself better. “About someone else, I mean.”

   The other boy started as he caught on. For a moment, he looked down at his hands, either lost in thought or contemplating what to say. Then he met Harry’s gaze again. “All the time,” he said cryptically with an unusual intensity in his eyes. Adopting a more comfortable position, he continued: “So, tell me what it is you’ve been feeling and we’ll see if I can help you.”

   While Cedric listened intently, Harry described how he had been increasingly flustered, nervous, and awkward without mentioning who the source of his discomfort was. How his heart had been speeding up and how his chest had felt dangerously close to exploding.

   Inevitably, his mind strayed to the previous night. Standing in that unlit corridor, Harry had discovered that breathing can sometimes be the hardest thing. Realising that Malfoy was standing so close to him that he could feel his body pressing up against him, his breath had caught in his chest and his heart had desperately pounded against his ribcage, as if trying to spring free.

   For whatever reason, he had only been able to think about getting even closer to the blonde, to feel his warmth against his own skin; to feel his touch. If he had not been so out of breath, he would probably have made a complete fool of himself and asked Malfoy to touch him—which was absurd!

   But then he had detected a hint of cologne or shampoo, something at once sweet and tangy, and it was so heady he had almost felt intoxicated. And underlying that perfumy scent had been a distinct musk that was undeniably male and that had only enhanced the burning, pulsating sensation in Harry. It had made his heart flutter and pump his churning blood into a few select places of his body; his nether regions, his lips, his fingertips.

   He had never experienced anything like it before.

   When the blonde had just suddenly up and left, Harry had feared that he knew; that he had somehow sensed the strange reaction in Harry and had fled the scene in disgust.

   All day, Harry had been sick with anxiety without understanding why. Every time the blonde was close to him, he found it hard to breathe properly and his heart was beating frantically in his throat. He was dead scared that Malfoy was going to notice the difference in him and … what exactly? It was all so confusing …

   When Harry ran out of breath and paused in his bewildered rambling, Cedric gave him a wry smile and said, “Sounds like attraction, if you ask me.”

   Harry started. “A … attraction?”

   Cedric laughed at his stumped expression. “The nervousness, the sudden, impulsive need to be close to a certain person, feeling awkward and intoxicated around someone … Yeah, that sure sounds like attraction to me.” He winked conspiratorially at Harry.

   “But … but that can’t be …”

   Attraction? That was absolutely ridiculous! He could not be attracted to Malfoy—it was _Malfoy_ , for crying out loud! The most pompous, self-righteous, _vile_ person in the entire school! He hated him with every fibre of his body, so how the Hell could he suddenly be _attracted_ to him?!

   His head was spinning out of control.

   He could not be attracted to Malfoy. He just could not.

   Could he?

   There was only one way to find out; he would have to test the theory and force himself as close to Malfoy as he could get without causing too much suspicion and see if that made him feel … different.

   The study session that was already underway in the library presented the perfect opportunity. Excusing himself, he therefore left Cedric in the common room and hurried down to the first floor.

   He almost laughed at the absurdity in the situation. For more than six years now, he had hated Malfoy’s guts—and here he was, eagerly running to him to investigate whether or not he was attracted to the bloke.

   But if it was true, he needed to know so he could establish some form of protective walls or similar measures to shield himself from whatever it was that affected him so much. He knew that chemistry had a lot to do with whom you got attracted to, that some people simply possessed a certain chemical makeup that drew you to them. He had never been as close to Malfoy as he was now that he was forced to be his servant, so he guessed it was possible that the blonde’s chemical makeup had escaped him until now …

   And if it was just a matter of chemistry, then there must be a potion or something that could cancel that out—right?

   Maybe Noelle could help him cook something up.

   Malfoy and Luna were sitting at the usual table, across from one another, both deep in their own books and essays. Now and then, they exchanged a few words, but the air between them seemed tense, awkward somehow. That confounded him, because he had been of the impression that Malfoy and Luna were good friends.

   “Hey, sorry I’m late,” he said when he reached them, and took the seat next to the blonde, intentionally letting the chair glide a little bit closer to him than was necessary. Almost immediately, a nervous tingling spread through his chest and stomach, as if something was fluttering about in there. “Must’ve eaten something bad.”

   Malfoy scrunched up his nose haughtily. “Too much information, Potter.”

   Harry’s heart skipped a beat when Malfoy said his name. His cheeks began to burn with embarrassment. Why the Hell had he said that? Now the blonde was going to think he had been stuck in the bathroom with a bad case of the runs!

   “All the same, I am glad you are finally here,” the Slytherin continued in an indifferent, arrogant tone. “Now I can at last focus on the important things and leave the droll research to you.”

   Of course. Happy to have his tool back.

   Ignoring the jibes and mockeries that the blonde threw his way with regular intervals, Harry focused himself inwards and attentively analysed every single feeling that coursed through him during the study session.

   Now and then, he leaned in to the blonde with the excuse that he wanted a closer look at his notes to compare them to his own. When he got in close, he once more detected that exhilarating mix of sweet-and-tangy cologne and masculine musk that he only then realised must be Malfoy’s own scent. It elicited the same reaction in him; pulse speeding, breath catching, mind intoxicated, and skin impatiently itching to feel the blonde’s touch.

   It was the most alluring scent he had ever smelled.

   When Malfoy shortly thereafter reached out for a blank piece of parchment, Harry hurriedly reached out his own hand to force a collision; he wanted to know what it would feel like to be skin-to-skin with the Slytherin.

   And he was not disappointed. When his hand brushed against Malfoy’s, his skin flared up and sent thrilling shivers through his body. All at once, the cold lump that had always accompanied the blonde’s presence was melted down by the heat that coursed through him with every pounding heartbeat.

   “Potter, wait your turn!” Malfoy barked, and swatted his hand away. “Know your place!”

   Gazing straight into those cold, closed off pools of silvery grey as they fell reproachfully on him, Harry had to swallow hard not to say something utterly inappropriate. “Sorry. Reflex—you know, being your servant and … all.”

   Yes, he was attracted to Draco Malfoy; there was no denying it anymore.

   So, what was he going to do about it?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Studying with Luna and Potter had proved much less of a pain in the arse than Draco had anticipated. There had been one instance where his and Potter’s hands accidentally touching had led to a very embarrassing, very real physical response. He had been immensely happy for the table hiding that fact from straying eyes. In a moment of panic, he had slapped the Gryffindor’s hand away to not seem like he was affected by it.

   Draco was therefore very happy when the following day progressed without any sudden, humiliating arousals; it was simply a normal, uneventful day. The only things he felt towards Potter was hatred, disgust, and exasperation, so everything was in order.

   After lunch, though, things began to take a turn he was not comfortable with. He had just risen from the Slytherin table and joined up with Potter by the doors to the Entrance Hall, preparing to leave for the next lesson, when a tiny figure appeared next to them. “Harry, are you free after school?” it asked in a hopeful voice.

   Potter looked over at Draco with a questioning glint in his emerald eyes as he said, “I don’t have any plans after Quidditch practice, I guess …” He sounded uncertain, though, and almost seemed like he was asking permission from Draco or something. _Interesting._

   The little urchin brightened at the Gryffindor’s statement and grabbed his arm in excitement. “Then let’s have a picnic at the lake for dinner!” it pleaded.

   Offended that this tiny creature was presuming to occupy his servant for the evening, Draco opened his mouth to object, but before he could even get out one complete word, it turned its attention on him instead. “Hi, Draco!” it beamed at him and caught him off guard. “Can’t you come, too? It would be awesome if you could!”

   Draco was so stunned that he did not even think to decline the offer. Instead, he sought Potter’s eyes. “It’s talking to me,” he said numbly. “Why is it talking to me?”

   The Gryffindor looked at him with contempt in his disapprovingly narrowing eyes. “As you may recall, ‘it’ is my sister,” he warned, “and for some inexplicable reason she seems to have taken a liking to you, even though you are clearly a despicable person.”

   Starting, he quickly rose to the challenge. “You will not speak to me like that, slave; you show some respe—”

   “So you’ll come, then?” the enervating girl cut in.

   Once again, Draco was dumbfounded. “I … what?” was all he managed. But when no refusal came, the little bugger just assumed that they would go, and hence they wound up having dinner by the lake that evening.

   It was a very uncomfortable experience for Draco, nibbling on grilled chicken legs, bread rolls, vegetable sticks, and little tarts sitting, stiff-backed and wary, on a chequered blanket together with Potter and his aggravating sister. He could not understand why he had not ditched them and gone to the art room instead—like _he wanted_ to do—but for some reason he just could not seem to ignore that little monster.

   _Oh God_ , he thought to himself in dismay, _I’m not developing a soft spot now, am I?!_

   He mostly sat in discontented and self-conscious silence while the two Potters conversed pleasantly with one another, stubbornly gazing out over the water and pretending not to listen until the topic of ‘family dinner Sunday’ came up.

   “You are not going to any family dinner on Sunday,” he declared with absolute authority, looking down his nose at Potter.

   The Gryffindor instantly bristled. “You have no right to keep me away from my family!” he protested violently.

   Draco scoffed. “Oh, don’t I? I am your master and may command you as I please. I am not about to release you for an entire day just so you can ‘have fun.’”

   “But this is my family we’re talking about! I’m bloody doing everything you ask me and you’re already fucking things up for me with my friends—you can at least let me spend one day with my parents!”

   The blonde pointedly stared him down. “Not happening, so you may as well just drop it.”

   Potter rose from the blanket so swiftly he almost toppled over. Collecting himself and flushing an amusing pink, he said, “Picnic is over. Come on, Angel, let’s get this cleaned up.”

   Naturally, Draco did not help but rather sat there and took his sweet time eating the rest of his tart.

   When they returned to the castle, they were met by Miles and Theodore, who were both dressed in expensive, silky robes in rich midnight blue and burgundy respectively, apparently prepared for a good time at the social gathering that was held in the Great Hall every Friday night.

   “Your father’s looking for you,” Miles passed on with his usual indifference.

   “Yeah,” Theodore chimed in, gazing over at the pissed Potter, “he wants to speak with both of you. They’ve been announcing it over the intercom for the past forty minutes.”

   That made Draco raise an eyebrow. “What the fuck does he want now?”

   “Does it ever matter with you Malfoys?” Potter muttered darkly. “Let’s just get it over with.”

   To their surprise, old Lucius was not alone when they stepped into his office; the entire faculty was currently crowding in the round room and made it seem claustrophobically small. Draco was almost loath to go inside. His skin prickled and he had the insane feeling that the floor would open up beneath them, unable to hold the collective weight.

   “Ah, I see that you finally deign to join us,” Lucius drawled, and his grey eyes betrayed a precarious impatience lying dormant beneath the emotionless surface.

   Draco could not help but start under his father’s accusing stare. “We were down by the lake,” he said defensively. “If you want your messages to be heard by everyone, maybe you should consider expanding the reach of your announcement system.”

   A cold sneer disfigured Malfoy senior’s face. “You and I shall discuss that suggestion later in private, Draco,” he promised. Then he made a sweeping motion towards the assembled professors. “It has come to my attention that Mr. Potter has been arriving late to every single one of the lessons his house does not share with Slytherin. I wonder, might you have anything to do with this, son?”

   Draco frowned in suspicion. This felt like a trap. Yet, he could not deny the truth in front of the full body of professors. “Yes, he has been assisting me by setting up my table for me,” he therefore replied, defiantly sticking out his chin at his father. “What of it?”

   The teachers began to murmur between themselves at that, but Lucius merely leaned back in his extravagant chair and folded his hands on the desk. “That is, of course, your right according to the specifics of his punishment,” he said, causing a minor uproar amongst the professors.

   “But you cannot mean that you would condone this kind of behaviour?” McGonagall asked, appalled. “A student cannot arrive late and leave early from every single lesson! It will disrupt the whole class, not to mention how detrimental it is to his own learning—it simply cannot be accepted!”

   Not surprisingly, most of the teachers agreed with her and uttered similar concerns.

   Lucius held up his left hand to quieten them. “I recognise the issues that this causes both Mr. Potter himself and his classmates, and that is why I have called you all in here. We will not leave until we have agreed upon a solution.”

   A dozen voices began to talk over each other with contradictory demands and suggestions, none of which seemed to solve the problem. The tension levels were rapidly rising.

   Before even realising that he was about to speak, Draco heard himself saying, “So have him join the Slytherins’ lessons instead.”

   The room grew uncomfortably quiet.

   All eyes were on Draco, and he started to feel very discomfited under their intense stares. “Well, it would be the logical solution, wouldn’t it?” he continued, making an effort not to squirm. “You feel that his academic development will suffer if he keeps missing part of his classes, but at the same time he must follow the guidelines of the disciplinary action set against him. So why not have him follow the Slytherin schedule instead? Same content, different times. Everyone’s happy.”

   A little voice in the back of his head wondered why he was giving them this suggestion. Why the bloody Hell would he care what happened to Potter? But then again, there would be benefits to having the Gryffindor with him at all times … He would never again have to do a single thing himself, because Potter would be right there to do them for him.

   _My God, I’m a fucking genius!_ he thought, impressed by his own foresight.

   A majority of the teachers seemed to think it was an excellent idea after a bit of thought, but Potter himself was about to explode with fury. “You must be fucking joking!” he cried. “I’m a _Gryffindor_ and I want to take classes with the _Gryffindors_! You can’t seriously be considering this?”

   “I think this is taking it a bit far,” his mother put in, looking directly at Lucius.

   “No offense, Miss Lily, but yeh’re biased in this ma’er,” Professor Hagrid pointed out, and several others instantly concurred.

   “I’m with Lily on this,” Professor Lupin objected.

   “And no one here is surprised by that, either,” Alastor Moody, professor of History of Magic, assured him, but in a good-natured way. He gave his colleague a friendly clap on the shoulder.

   “Headmaster, Harry is already serving his sentence admirably,” Lupin went on, “I think it unwise to punish him even further.”

   Lucius raised a perfectly shaped eyebrow at him. “But there will be no further punishment, Professor Lupin—Mr. Potter will merely get a slightly different timetable. He will still be attending the same classes and switching to the Slytherin schedule will also eliminate the issue of him being late. I think it is only fair that we at least have a vote on this. All in favour?”

   The vote made it quite clear that the teachers saw no problem with a Gryffindor being taken away from his own housemates as long as he was present for the duration of their lessons. Draco found that rather amusing, but the object of the meeting was practically throwing a tantrum by that point. After a few select words, none of which should be mentioned in polite company, Potter stormed off in a blind rage.

   All in all, that day had been a win.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was so furious after the meeting in The Prick’s office that he could not sleep all night; he tossed and turned restlessly in his bed, frequently feeling tears of betrayal and anger sting in the corners of his eyes.

   How could they? How could they just blindly agree to everything that came out of those privileged, self-righteous bastard Malfoys’ mouths? They had been his teachers for over six years—people he had trusted, confided in, _looked up to_ —and they went and betrayed him like this.

   They were supposed to think about what was best for their students—and they had thrown him under the bus, just like that.

   Ultimately, he could not stand it anymore. He needed to be with adults who were on his side and who could talk him out of doing something stupid. So despite it only being 5 a.m. and the sun would not even be up for another hour and a half, he got dressed and walked down to Sirius’s hut. He knew that his godfather would always welcome him, even if he dragged him out of bed before dawn.

   Sirius and Remus both came to the door when he knocked, wearing matching dressing gowns and nightcaps. Neither of them seemed bothered about being roused from bed so early on a day off but simply invited him inside and put the kettle on.

   When the tea was ready, they took their mugs and went outside to sit in the fresh morning air. Harry appreciatively breathed in deeply and savoured the last traces of summer that were giving in to the stubbornly pressing autumn. It was only the 12th of September, but the leaves were already turning yellow on the trees.

   “I wish I was an Animagus, too,” Harry mumbled, staring off into the deep, dark forest. “Then I could just run away and never even be recognised by the people wanting to drag me back into this nightmare.” He had always been a bit jealous of Sirius and Remus’s ability to transform into canines and go on a wild run whenever they wished. Be totally free.

   “I understand that it feels as if the entire world is against you right now,” Sirius said, “and considering what happened last night, I don’t blame you, either. But you should know that your teachers aren’t conspiring against you, Harry.”

   The raven-haired boy snorted contemptuously. “I wouldn’t be so sure about that. No offense, but you weren’t there.”

   “But I was,” Remus interjected wisely. “And I know it seems as though the other professors were just going along with the Headmaster’s decision, but they are in fact concerned for your ability to learn everything you need to when you’re missing parts of your lessons every day.” He held up a hand when Harry opened his mouth to protest. “I didn’t say I agree with them, but I do see where they’re coming from. To them, Draco’s suggestion sounded like a good idea. It is simply a case of misguided concern.”

   “But I don’t want to take my classes with the Slytherins, and they didn’t even listen to me! It’s not fair!”

   “No, it isn’t fair,” Sirius agreed, “but unfortunately there is nothing to be done about it. There was a majority vote, wasn’t there? If we are to live in a democracy we have to accept the outcome of all majority votes, I’m afraid. Even if we don’t like them.”

   Harry sighed in defeat. “I know … I just feel like I’m being dragged further and further away from my friends, and I don’t like it,” he said gloomily. “And I don’t think it’s a good idea for me to spend even more time around Malfoy …”

   His thoughts were on his newfound sexual attraction to the blonde, but the older men seemed to think that he was referring to his long standing feud with the Slytherin.

   “Well, you always have us,” Remus told him with a lopsided smile. “You can come round any time, Harry; we’re always here to listen.”

   At that, Sirius turned to look at him with a wide, proud grin on his face. “You are such a sweetheart, Remus,” he said affectionately, “have I ever told you that?”

   Remus chuckled. “Oh, only about a thousand times,” he reminded his partner, and placed a tender kiss on Sirius’s lips.

   Harry smiled at the scene, but in his gut something twisted in envy.

   What they had together was perfect—beautiful—and Harry silently wondered if he would ever get to experience anything even remotely like it.

 

 

* * *

 

 

His talk with Remus and Sirius had made him realise that he was powerless to change his academic situation, but that he could change something else. So despite how much it hurt his pride to do so, he went to Malfoy and begged him to let him go to the family dinner the following day. If he would have to endure lessons with the stuck-up, self-centred Slytherins he would need some normalcy in his life, and the monthly family dinners were something he was not prepared to give up.

   After an entire day of grovelling, the blonde finally gave him permission to go, albeit very reluctantly. Harry was so overwhelmed with relief and joy that he gave the blonde a hard hug before realising what he was actually doing. “Thank you!” he exclaimed emphatically.

   Malfoy desperately pushed him away from him. He glared at him in utter fright. “What the bloody Hell is wrong with you?!” he cried in disgust. “Don’t you _ever_ touch me again!”

   It dawned on him what he had just done. He had hugged Malfoy. _Hugged_ him! What the Hell kind of nancy thing to do _was_ that? Harry felt as if he was going to be sick.

   Yet, somewhere deep inside of him, his heart sank at the blonde’s reaction. The rebel part of him that was drawn to the Slytherin was disappointed and downright gutted by his abhorred expression. To hide that, Harry swiftly adopted an annoyed air. “Don’t worry,” he spat out, “I wouldn’t go near you for all the Galleons in the world!”

   “Good!” Malfoy countered, and promptly spun on his heel and left.

   Early Sunday afternoon, Harry used the big fireplace dedicated to public transportation together with his mother and the others and Flooed to the Potters’ family home in Little Whinging.

   Ever since Lily and her older sister Petunia had got to the stage in their life where they got married and had children, the two families had been living next door to each other, on number 6 and 4 Privet Drive respectively.

   Once they stepped out of the fireplace in the parlour, Angel called out for their father in an excited voice that made Harry smile. A few seconds later, James Potter came hurrying towards them from his den at the other end of the house, arms wide in greeting. “My little Angel!” he said, laughing happily as the tiny girl threw herself in his arms. “Mmm, I’ve missed you!”

   Lily walked up to him and affectionately pecked his stubbly cheek. “Hey, honey, got everything all right?”

   He kissed her back without releasing their daughter. “Yup, both the fridge and pantry have been stocked per your instructions.”

   “Good, I’ll go fetch Petunia, then,” Lily announced, and left through the archway to the hallway.

   When Angel finally let go of their father, James stepped up to Harry and gave him, too, a warm hug. “Good to see you, son,” he said, and gave Harry a peppy slap on the back that almost knocked him off balance.

   His father was not a big man—at 5’8” he was only three inches taller than Harry—but he was strong for his size and seldom realised it.

   “Good to see you, too, Dad,” he therefore coughed out. “Novel coming along nicely?”

   James instantly brightened when asked about his book and launched into a detailed, spirited walkthrough, something that Harry had anticipated. Even though he was not much for mysteries himself, he nodded politely and asked the required questions to show just the right amount of interest. He knew that his father lived as much in the fictional universe of his wizard detective Stybeus Ficastrum as in the real world and appreciated how important it was to him.

   When James had moved on to greeting Sirius and Remus, the final guests arrived; Solis Lovegood through the fireplace and aunt Petunia from next door, accompanied by her sister.

   For as long as Harry could remember, this had been his family; not only his own parents and sister, but also their closest friends were counted into the group and valued equally. There was aunt Petunia and their cousin Dudley, of course, and their father’s best mates Sirius and Remus, who were Harry and Angel’s godfathers respectively.

   Then there was the Lovegoods, thanks to Solis having been Lily’s best friend ever since they attended Hogwarts together and had also been chosen as Harry’s godmother. With her came the eccentric Xenophilius and their three children; Luna, Stella, and Caelum.

   In accordance with Potter family tradition, they all prepared the food together while talking, laughing, and singing silly songs of their own inventions. Once everything was done, they carried the steaming platters, baskets, and pots into the dining room, where they all took their usual chairs around the long table that seated fourteen.

   Harry loved their long nosh-ups, and on this particular day he savoured it even more than usual. With everything that was going on with Malfoy at school, he really appreciated the normalcy and enjoyed the change of pace immensely. It was pure pleasure listening to everyone talking about their own passions and watching their animated gestures and expressions.

   His father was once more rambling on about his latest novel, which was by then halfway finished, and gave them a humorous description of Stybeus Ficastrum, unimportant and overworked Ministry employee turned private detective who was trying to solve a series of magical murders that had been committed inside the Ministry itself.

   To get an accurate view of what life was like for ‘paper pushers,’ as he called them, he had taken to shadowing Arthur Weasley in his daily work.

   “Research is very important for an author, and sadly that is something that not everyone can understand and appreciate,” James declared around a mouthful of freshly baked bread.

   “Yes, Bill has been giving us a vivid image of what his father has to put up with because of you, James,” Remus put in with an amused, lopsided grin playing on his lips. There was a certain playful and teasing tone in his voice that only he ever got away with.

   “Ha, ha, ha!” James cried from the head of the table and threw a bun at his friend four seats from his left. “You professors always gang up on me, the—”

   “—the poor, innocent writer,” Lily finished for him, rolling her eyes teasingly.

   James pretended to pout. “Aww, Lily—not you, too! I thought at least my own wife would be on my side!”

   Solis, on James’s immediate left, and Lily, on his immediate right, both sniggered at this and looked at each other over the table, shaking their heads in affectionate resignation.

   Harry was sitting towards the opposite end of the table from his father, with Angel on his left and Dudley on his right. His cousin seemed a bit troubled, so he took care to make sure that he was all right, lowering his voice so that no one else around the noisy table would hear.

   “I’m fine,” Dudley said, but he was still fidgeting with his napkin in his lap so Harry patiently waited him out, knowing that he would spill the beans when he was ready. Finally, he heaved a great sigh. “Okay, I feel bad for how I’ve been treating you lately. You know, at school.”

   Harry raised an eyebrow in puzzlement. “How you’ve been treating me? But, you haven’t been treating me bad—”

   “Yeah, I have,” Dudley insisted, turning an earnest gaze on him. “I’ve just been standing by while Draco’s been whipping you about, and I’ve laughed just as much as the other Slytherins when really I should’ve stood up for you. You’re a good guy; you don’t deserve to be trea’ed like that.”

   His cousin’s speech took Harry aback. It was very unusual for Dudley to utter that many words in one succession, so he must really feel awful for his passivity.

   Feeling slightly awkward, he smiled embarrassedly and gave his cousin a fist bump on the shoulder. “No problem, mate,” he assured, “I know what a hard time you have staying on Malfoy’s good side. You just … do what you have to do. No harsh feelings.”

   Dudley exhaled audibly in relief. “Thanks, mate.”

   They ate in silence for a while, watching in amusement as Xenophilius, who had clearly had too much Elderflower wine, talked loudly and boisterously about some supposed creature sightings in Wales without even noticing that nobody was listening. He turned this way and that, shifting his attention from one tablemate to another, completely oblivious of the fact that they were all deep in conversations about entirely different subjects.

   Next to him, his wife was continuously commenting on Stella’s boorish table manners in between gentle and whimsical conversations with Lily. Stella ignored her mother’s appeals for her to chew with her mouth closed and just kept on talking with her mouth full at every opportunity. She was a very headstrong and opinionated girl.

   “I really enjoyed our study session together,” Luna declared out of the blue, and caught Harry’s attention from her seat across from him. There was a lopsided, cunning smile on her otherwise pensive face. Her grey eyes seemed to pierce right through him. “We should do it more often, especially now that we’ll be taking all our classes together.”

   Next to him, Dudley spluttered and coughed as he apparently choked on his Butterbeer. “What?!” he croaked out.

   Luna turned to him. “Oh, you haven’t heard? Harry’s gonna go to our lessons starting Monday,” she said pleasantly, either disturbingly unaware of her housemate’s choking or—even more disturbingly, if that was the case—ignoring it.

   Dudley spun around towards Harry so quickly and forcefully that his neck popped. “You’re being moved to Slytherin!? And you didn’t think to give me a head’s up?” he accused, and Harry was worried that his cousin’s raised voice was going to draw the attention of his father.

   If James thought that his son was going to be transferred to Slytherin …

   Uncomfortable with being put on the spot, Harry lowered his eyes to his plate. “Well, it’s not like I’ve had any opportunity to speak to you at school,” he defended himself with. “And besides, I’m _not_ being moved to Slytherin, so you’ve got nothing to worry about, all right? I’ve just been ordered to follow your schedule ‘cos the professors are ‘worried about my academic standing if I can’t be on time’ …”

   “But why the Hell would you have to go to Slytherin classes because of that?” Dudley almost yelled, apparently outraged at the prospect of having his secret Gryffindor cousin in the same lessons as him.

   At the head of the table, James cocked his ears. “Did someone say something about Slytherin?” he asked, his hazel eyes going cold and black in an instant.

   “I’m sure you were just imagining it,” Lily said soothingly. “Tea, anyone?”

   “Well, it wasn’t me making the decision, now was it?” Harry countered, pointedly whispering to his cousin.

   “I really like having you in our classes,” Luna said in all honesty.

   It did not quite mollify Dudley, but at least it diffused the situation and allowed them to continue having dinner in peace.

   After they had eaten, the women cleared the table while the men, assisted by Angel and Caelum, set up for game night in the parlour. Ever since Harry, Dudley, Luna, and Stella were little they had regularly gathered to play Muggle board games. It was an Evans family tradition that both Lily and Petunia had insisted on continuing when both their sons showing signs of being budding wizards made it clear that they would remain part of the wizarding world.

   They started out with Monopoly, teaming up two and two with Petunia as an impartial judge and Banker. James poured the adults Dragon Barrel Brandy while Lily served the young adults Butterbeer and the children pumpkin juice. Before sitting down next to her husband and game partner, she also brought in snacks and biscuits and loaded a selection of Depeche Mode albums into the 5-disc CD player.

   His parents had both loved Depeche Mode’s music since they were teenagers in the 80s, and they had passed that love on to Harry. He therefore smiled nostalgically when _Some Great Reward_ began to play, now and then chiming in with his parents as they sang along with the classic songs.

   He was partnered with Luna, who could be quite a brutal negotiator and set her sights at winning no matter the cost, like a true Slytherin. Harry was happy to take a step back and let her handle things while he used the time to chat with his family.

   Seeing Angel and Caelum working together—two equally sweet, caring, and considerate kids—was a pleasure. Harry was really happy to know that Caelum was in his little sister’s year; if there were ever times when he could not be there for her, he at least knew that the loyal, good-natured boy would always be on her side.

   He also found his eyes frequently travelling to his godfather and his life partner. Remus was casually sitting in Sirius’s lap with his right arm wrapped around the Groundskeeper’s neck. Now and then, they exchanged inside jokes with each other or placed a soft kiss on the other’s cheek or forehead.

   They looked so comfortable with each other, as if being together was the most natural thing in the world.

   His mind drifting, Harry tried to picture himself and Malfoy in their positions, wondering what it would be like to be that close to the blonde; to be that snug and relaxed together. But he soon had to admit to himself that it would never work.

   If he tried to sit down in the blonde’s lap, he was certain that he would be swatted away faster than a gnat trying to get a taste of the pale Slytherin’s blood. Reversely, Malfoy would never deign to sit on someone’s lap; Harry could practically hear him scoffing at the mere suggestion of such a childish act.

   Hang on just a second. Had he really just compared himself and The Princess to Sirius and Remus? Was he going completely mental?!

   As he returned to reality and the familiar noises of the people he loved once more flooded his ears, he also grew aware that _Master and Servant_ was currently playing. Since his thoughts were already on the blonde, he could not help but draw parallels between the song and his own situation.

   Malfoy was his master, and not only did he dominate his servant in everyday life, but Harry was now seeing images of him playing the part ‘between the sheets’ as well—and to his great dismay, he was not all that averse to the idea.

   _It’s a lot like life / This play between the sheets / With you on top and me underneath / Forget all about equality /_ _Let’s play master and servant …_

   Terrified of his own depraved thoughts, Harry stumbled up from his seat and fled the room. He had to get away from the music, as if the song was predicting his future and he could prevent it from coming true if he only shut himself off from it before it reached the end.

   Breathing wheezily and with his heart pounding painfully in his chest, he sunk down on the bed in his upstairs bedroom, clutching the fabric of his navy jersey in a desperate grip.

   _No, no, no … this can’t be happening … this can’t be fucking happening!_

   He was practically hugging himself in a state of pure panic when Luna stepped into the room. She did not knock or otherwise check if it was all right for her to join him; they were so close that she simply knew that he would not be upset by her inviting herself in.

   When she saw the state he was in, she slid down next to him and calmly put her arms around him in a protective, soothing embrace. She did not say anything; just sat there holding him until he had calmed down.

   Meeting her mystifying grey eyes, he murmured, “Luna, I … I am so scared …”

   Still, she remained quiet.

   He ran his hand through his messy, black hair. “I don’t even understand _why_ I’m so fucking scared, or what exactly it is that I’m scared _of …_ ”

   Perhaps not the entire truth, but close enough to it. He was still confused, yes, but not as much as he was but a day or two ago. He had admitted to himself that he was attracted to Malfoy for some unfathomable reason, and that was scary enough in itself … but there was something else, as well. Something he had not quite figured out yet—and that terrified him.

   To his surprise, Luna gave him one of her dreamy, unaffected smiles. “I know, Harry, but there’s really nothing to be afraid of,” she said reassuringly, and she sounded so confident in her assessment that he almost believed her. She put a hand on his cheek. “Everything will work out fine—you’ll see.”

   Regardless if that was true or not, he would have to believe in it, would not he? Because if he did not, he would either go mad or succumb completely to anxiety.

   He therefore nodded and forced out a faint smile in return. “Thanks.”

   “Oh, no worries,” she assured him, and rose from the bed. “I already figured he passed the test,” she added as she skipped over to the door, preparing to return to the others.

   Harry stiffened. “Excuse me?” he whispered.

   All colour had drained from his face the moment she mentioned ‘the test.’

   Her smile just widened, and there was a teasing glint in her eyes. “In the library. You tested him, didn’t you?”

   For the longest time, he did not know what to say. He was well aware that Luna was one of the most astute and perceptive people he knew, but he had never imagined that she would so easily catch on to what was currently going on with him. “I …”

   What could he say? She was right, of course. And maybe having her on his side in this, having an ally in whom he could confide, would make this nightmare a little less unbearable.

   Yet, he found himself saying, “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

   He instantly regretted it. All their lives, he had never lied to Luna before, and it hurt down to his very core.

   What hurt even more was that she did not seem to be the least bit affected by it—as if she knew exactly why he had lied and had already dismissed the reason as acceptable. “Your secret’s safe with me,” she said, and then she left the room.

   He could hear her skipping down the hall towards the stairs.

   It took a long time before he had the courage to follow her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Nothing was working. It did not matter what he tried to pass the time with; he simply could not concentrate on anything. He went to the art room to continue his painting but could not find any inspiration; he tried to study but could not even figure out the simplest of exercises; he sat down in the comfiest armchair in the common room to read his favourite author’s latest novel but could not follow the plot.

   Snarling in frustration, Draco threw the stupid book across the room and almost hit Goyle, who just entered the room from the Dungeon corridor. He stopped and slowly looked down at the discarded book, then gazed back up at the blonde with a sad disappointment in his blue-green eyes.

   Draco instantly felt bad; the big, lumbering mute simply had that effect on him. “Sorry, Goyle, didn’t see you there.”

   The other boy shrugged and continued on to the boys’ dormitory.

   Stamping his foot on the hard stone floor, Draco wondered what he was going to do. Try to find Blaise? No, he did not feel like dealing with that smug bellend at the moment.

   He peered over at the group of 6th\- and 7th-years playing Exploding Snap at the other end of the common room. Should he join them? No, Miles was there (he was a better cheater than Draco), not to mention Auriola and Pansy. If he wanted a blithering gang of imbeciles to fawn over him he might as well seek out that insufferable, hysterical Hufflepuff Lavender Brown and her leech of a brother …

   A shudder passed through him at the thought.

   No, he had better keep weighing his options.

   When taking a restless walk through the school earlier, he had spotted Crabbe trying to convince the house elves in the kitchen to give him a chocolate cake, and his Quidditch team mates Graham Montague and Adrian Pucey had been studying in the library. Draco did not feel like joining any of them, but he could not just sit there and do nothing, either.

   Ultimately deciding that some flying might do him good, he Summoned his broomstick and left the Slytherin Dungeon.

   On the way up to the Entrance Hall, he almost collided with the Patil twins.

   “Draco, watch where you’re going!” Padma reproached him tetchily.

   Not about to be pushed around by a girl, Draco drew himself up and gave her a warning scowl. “I would watch my mouth if I were you,” he hissed. “If you insist on throwing baseless accusations in my face, I can arrange for you to serve for a nice little Hufflepuff. How does that sound?”

   She seemed to consider the likelihood that his statement was a bluff, then scrunched up her nose in distaste. “Whatever,” she spat out, and shouldered past him.

   Her twin shrugged at him and made to follow her down the stairs.

   Draco was just about to continue on his way, as well, when something hit him. During his agitated circuits of the school and its grounds that day, he had seen all of his classmates but one and felt a sting of something indefinable.

   Turning back towards the twins again, he called out: “Hey, has either of you seen Luna today?”

   Parvati stopped a few feet below him and gazed back up. “Isn’t she at that dinner with Potter?” she wondered, sounding surprised that he would not know.

   The stinging sensation became hotter and blacker until he almost felt like pushing Parvati down the stairs simply to get an outlet for his frustration. He quickly left before he did something he would regret.

   So, he had taken Luna to his family dinner, eh? One did not bring just anyone to such an intimate affair … Which meant that the rumours must be true. For some reason, that annoyed Draco and made him want to hit something—or someone.

   Maybe he should go find Blaise, anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry felt exhausted when he finally staggered into his dorm room in Gryffindor Tower that evening. A full day hanging out with his lively family had not exactly smoothed over his sleep deprivation. He just wanted to go straight to bed and sleep until his new life as a pseudo-Slytherin started.

   He would need it.

   “Harry, you’re back!” Cedric suddenly exclaimed from further into the room.

   Harry jumped. “Merlin, I didn’t see you there, Cedric,” he said with a hand on his chest.

   The taller boy hurriedly walked up to him, and as the light from the wall sconces fell on him it became clear that he was anxious about something. He seemed agitated and fidgety, which was highly uncharacteristic of him.

   “You all right, mate?” Harry therefore wondered.

   Cedric opened his mouth to speak, then changed his mind. Stared down at his feet in hesitation. His strange behaviour made the raven-haired boy worried that something might be wrong.

   Taking a deep breath to calm himself down, Cedric finally raised his gaze again and looked straight at Harry. “I’ve been thinking a lot lately,” he began nervously, speaking so quickly that it was hard to accurately make out all the words, “and I’ve realised that I have to do this now or I’ll never get the courage to again. You have always been one of my best friends, Harry, and that means the world to me, I would never want to ruin that. I hope you understand that. I just can’t ignore my feelings anymore or I’ll explode.”

   Harry blinked at his friend in befuddlement. “I’m sorry, I don’t understand what you’re talking about, what—”

   Even as he spoke, the other boy moved in closer and put a hand on the back of his messy-haired head. Then, without further preamble, he leaned down and silenced Harry’s mouth with his own.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you using the metric system:
> 
> 5’8” = 173 cm.


	7. Never Thought I'd Fill with Desire

 

Harry stared at Cedric in shock, not knowing what to do or how he was supposed to react. He had never been kissed before. Was there some sort of code to follow, some ideal way to let the other person know that you were not into it?

   For the longest time, he just stood there, unable to move or to look away from the taller boy’s anxious, grey eyes.

   How could this even have happened? Had there been signs that he should have picked up on? Admittedly, that peck on the cheek after he gave Cedric that brand new broomstick had been a bit weird … But as he ransacked his mind, he could not pinpoint a single moment in which there had been the slightest indication of the friend having romantic feelings for him.

   When Harry did not say anything, Cedric began to fidget nervously. His face flushed crimson and his eyes kept wandering this way and that. “I’m sorry, I shouldn’t have done that, we’re friends, you of course see me as a friend and nothing else,” he babbled, getting more and more flustered for every word shooting out of his mouth. “It’s just that, you know, when you asked me about feeling things you shouldn’t feel and it was so obvious that you were feeling attracted to someone … to be perfectly honest with you, I was hoping it was me. But if it wasn’t, then I was missing my chance with you and figured I needed to act before you … you know, got together with someone else. Oh, Merlin’s beard I’m stupid!”

   The apparent distress that his friend was currently in strongly affected Harry and made him feel guilty for not being able to at least give him an acceptable reaction. As Cedric said, they _were_ friends and the last thing Harry wanted was to hurt someone he held dear. Even though he probably should be honest with the roommate, he simply could not find it in him to coldly reject him; it would gut him.

   Therefore, he decided to walk down a more diplomatic path. “Sorry, you took me by surprise there,” he said, glad that he was not stuttering. “Would it be all right with you if I think about this for a while?”

   The other boy started, as if that was the last thing he had expected Harry to say. Then he nodded and managed a weak smile. “Sure. Take all the time that you need, okay?”

   All too happy to escape this embarrassing situation, Harry slid into bed and shut the curtains tight around himself. Despite being positively exhausted, there were no doubts that this was going to be another sleepless night, but there was not much he could do about that.

   When Harry went up the next morning, his new schedule had been left for him on the nightstand. Since first period on Mondays was Potions for Gryffindor and Slytherin, he did not bother to look at it but simply shoved it into his bag and headed out.

   He was not happy, and in a salty rebellion he stubbornly pretended not to hear the blonde whenever he addressed him. Leaving Malfoy the task of stirring their Polyjuice Potion while he sulked with arms crossed and fringe hanging down over his eyes was probably a stupid idea, but he could not bring himself to care enough to quit his childish obstinacy.

   He noticed that the blonde was furious with him, and that somehow made him feel better.

   If one of them had to be miserable, then why not both?

   After Potions, Harry threw longing glances at his classmates as their paths diverged. Hermione shot him an encouraging smile and nodded once, as if saying that he could do it; that it would be fine. He appreciated the sentiment, but he still felt his spirits sinking to new record depths when he trudged into History of Magic together with the smug Slytherins.

   It just felt _wrong_ , and he was irrationally dreading the rumours that were sure to spread: ‘Harry Potter abandons his classmates in favour of the serpents.’

   But maybe if he kept a low profile and hid himself in Goyle’s enormous shadow the Hufflepuffs would not even notice that he was there?

   “How refreshing to see you early for once, Mr. Potter!” the ever brusque Professor Moody boomed out, effectively crushing all hopes of going unseen.

   Those Hufflepuffs that were already present turned in their chairs in confusion and bafflement and looked straight at Harry, who was flanked by Crabbe and Bletchley in the doorway.

   Harry blushed crimson and immediately scurried over to the table that Malfoy had just chosen for himself and sank down in the seat next to him, making himself as tiny as he could by sliding down in the chair.

   A low murmur broke out in the classroom.

   Seamus, who was sitting across the aisle from them, leaned over and whispered, “Harry, whatchu doing here, mate? I mean, we all know why you come here with Malfoy and all, but why’re you _staying_?”

   Merlin, he could have cast an _Orbis_ on himself right then and there …

   Fortunately, Professor Moody began his lecture and forced Seamus to desist.

   History of Magic happened to be Harry’s least favourite subject—he found it incredibly boring, to be frank—so instead of trying to follow the lesson, he took out his new schedule. He torpidly looked it over just to have something to do. Almost instantly, he came across some discrepancies.

   Elbowing Malfoy to get his attention, he whispered, “This isn’t right; I think they gave me your schedule again.”

   The blonde did not even deign to meet his gaze. Staring straight ahead, he replied in a bored and simultaneously somewhat affronted tone: “Do I read tea leaves with the nancies of this school and spend my Wednesday afternoons feeding the animals at Hagrid’s petting zoo?” And when Harry, bewildered, said no, he went on: “Then it’s not my schedule, is it?”

   Well, he could not argue against that; the schedule did have both Divination and Care of Magical Creatures on it … “But I don’t take Arithmancy and Alchemy, so there’s been some mistake here.”

   Malfoy started as he finally understood what Harry was getting at. “Oh, _that_ ,” he said matter-of-factly. “That is no mistake; I had a long discussion with my father and got you into those classes. You may thank me later.”

   Harry blinked indignantly at the Slytherin, not believing what he was hearing. The git had ‘got him into those classes?’ Never mind that he had just gone above Harry’s head and self-righteously given him an even heavier workload than he already had—he was probably thinking that he was doing him a favour, too!

   Seeing the Gryffindor’s mutely gaping mouth, Malfoy adopted an important look and gave him a calmly confident sneer. “Don’t worry, I will of course lend you my course material so you can get caught up,” he informed him, sounding very generous indeed.

   Too tired to poke that hornet’s nest, Harry merely went back to perusing the timetable. Apparently, there had been even more additions. Frowning, he said, “Why does it say ‘Draco’s Art’ on my schedule? And here it says ‘Draco’s Quidditch Practice,’ too.”

   “I thought you’d appreciate having all your activities and duties clearly stated in one place.”

   Raising a questioning eyebrow at the blonde, Harry said, “That’s all fine, but why does it say ‘Draco?’ Are we on a first name basis now?”

   The Slytherin actually reddened slightly at that and furtively glanced over at him. “I’m not used to calling myself ‘Malfoy,’ alright?” he hissed uncomfortably.

   “Wait … you made this schedule yourself?” Harry wondered incredulously, and leant in even closer to the blonde. That was a mistake; he caught a whiff of the cologne that always seemed to make his pulse speed and quickly turned back around in his seat.

   He did not even hear the blonde’s reply; he just stared down at the schedule and tried to keep his excitement level in check. Further perusing the timetable, he saw that Malfoy had also made daily instances of ‘Study with Draco & Luna,’ and there—

   A mocking snort escaped him. “Er, ‘Make Draco excel at Muggle Sports’—really? Conceited much?” he asked, pointing to the evening training sessions that the blonde had scheduled.

   Malfoy snapped and swirled around towards him so quickly it almost made _Harry_ dizzy. “So I have a compulsive need to be on top in every class—is that all right with you, Potter? Just ‘cos _you’re_ averaging Acceptable doesn’t mean that everyone else has to slack off,” he spat out crossly.

   Feeling a sting of vexation, Harry pulled himself up from his slouching position. “I’ll have you know that I have quite a few Exceeds Expectations, thank you very much,” he objected, sounding embarrassingly childish even to himself.

   Why did Malfoy always get on his nerves to such a degree?

   “Aww, you two are so cute together! Been married long?” Bletchley quipped from behind them and made them both jump in their seats; it seemed like they had both forgotten that they were not alone in the room.

   They obstinately sat with their backs to each other for the rest of the lesson.

   Other than the fact that people were running the gossip mill at breakneck speed over Harry’s constant presence within the Slytherin group, that first day went rather smoothly, under the circumstances.

   His crimson-and-gold tie stuck out like an open wound amongst all the emerald and silver. By lunchtime, dozens of rumours were flourishing, ranging all the way from Harry being a (previously closeted) Slytherin wannabe to him being whipped and leashed by his girlfriend (Luna).

   The rumours were not going to go away even if he renounced them, so he decided to ignore them; he had way too much on his plate already.

   There were no breathers in his days anymore; after the regular classes ended, he would spend his time in the library with Luna and Malfoy, trying to wrap his head around Arithmancy and Alchemy. The blonde was a ruthless and uncompromising teacher and soon had Harry desperate to rip out his own hair in sheer frustration.

   When it all got too much for him, he stalked off to the Gryffindor common room in a crackling thunder cloud of fury to ventilate together with his true classmates. In the middle of spewing out his complaints, a strange beeping started to emanate _from inside of him_.

   Beyond mere anger and affront now, Harry screamed. “Now he’s made a bloody _pager_ out of me?!” As it turned out, the blonde had put some sort of spell on him that made him beep whenever the git wanted something from him—and it only stopped when he was within three feet of him.

   As if he did not have enough to do already, he had to tutor Malfoy in Muggle Sports as soon as the Quidditch pitch had been cleared out for the evening. The blonde actually did marginally better in class that Wednesday, but he was still nowhere near the other, more experienced students.

   At least Harry was so exhausted when he returned to the dorm in the late evenings that Cedric did not pressure him into giving him an answer, because he hated that he would eventually have to let him down.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After once more being the laughing stock in Muggle Sports, Draco forced Potter to coach him for the rest of that evening, driving them both so hard that they could hardly walk when they finally left the pitch. Contemplating to skive off tomorrow’s morning lessons so he could sleep in, he dragged his aching body into the dorm, longing for his warm and soft bed.

   Unfortunately, the first thing he saw when he stepped through the door was a set of naked buttocks that apparently had not seen the sun all summer. Crying out in shock, he reflexively backed away from the sight and stumbled over his own tired feet.

   It took him a few seconds to mentally process what he had seen; Goyle lying prone on his bed with a certain ginger rocking his hips while his pale bum jiggled …

   His blood began to boil in outrage and affront. Lashing out at them verbally, he yelled, “Oh, for fuck’s sake, Weasley! Is nothing sacred to you?!”

   He would have to _Obliviate_ himself after this …

   What was worse; the ginger just laughed at him naughtily. “You know, one day you might find me in your own bed, Malfoy,” he said suggestively, and the teasing tone in his voice implied that he was winking at him, but Draco was desperately looking away to spare his poor eyes any further assault.

   “If I ever catch you so much as _glancing_ towards my bed I will have you castrated, Weasley—mark my words!” he threatened before hurrying out of the room, feeling as if he would be sick.

   As always when the Gryffindor slut paid a visit to one of his dorm mates, Draco took his refuge to Pansy’s room. “I’m sleeping with you tonight, there’s a weasel in my room,” he stated as soon as he spotted her coming back from the showers. “Let me know when everyone’s decent.”

   While the girls readied themselves for bed, he Summoned his dressing gown, his pillow, and his toiletries and went to the boys’ bathroom. When he came back, Pansy was waiting for him in the doorway, signalling for him to come in.

   The girls were used to his infrequent stays and tolerated his presence; they all seemed to instinctively know that he posed no threat to them, something that was at once relieving and disturbing. Without even knowing it, they carried within them one of his greatest secrets, and that unnerved him.

   Padma and Auriola still were not very happy to have him there; they pointedly shut their bed curtains after giving him a matching set of murderous glares.

   “Hi, Draco,” Luna said from her bed, which was to the right of Pansy’s, and gave him a pleasant smile. It felt nice that she, at least, was glad to see him.

   “Hey, Luna,” he reciprocated with a grateful nod before carefully, elegantly slipping down under the duvet on the left side of the bed, making sure to only take up a third of the space at most so Pansy would have ample room.

   He slept peacefully enough, lying completely still, until the door slammed open an hour before dawn and someone came stomping in on steel-capped boots. Giving no fucks whatsoever, the person began to loudly rummage through something, presumably a trunk, throwing books and other paraphernalia out on the floor.

   Auriola groaned from her bed by the door.

   Next to him, Pansy sat up and drowsily rubbed the sleep out of her eyes. “Sounds like Lizzie’s home,” she mumbled with a yawn.

   The fifth girl sharing the dorm, Elizabeth Warren, was only there sporadically due to the fact that she did not actually exist; she was an ‘alter,’ as he had learnt that Mind Healers called it. There was a 6th-year girl in Ravenclaw—Myrtle Warren—who suffered from dissociative identity disorder as a result of very nearly being murdered in her fourth year. Her mind had not been able to cope with the trauma and had caused her personality to split into three separate girls, the third being a 4th-year Hufflepuff named Angelica.

   Since there was no telling when Lizzie would surface, her bed was often standing empty. Draco had once made the mistake of sleeping in it when Weasley was invading his own room. Lizzie had returned in the middle of the night and almost choked him to death with a fishnet stocking for ‘soiling her sanctuary.’ From then on, he always slept with Pansy, regardless if the fifth bed was occupied or not.

   Draco hated Lizzie Warren. And even though he would never admit it, he was also somewhat afraid of her.

   “Do you always have to make so much bloody noise?!” Auriola bellowed from behind her bed curtains.

   “Suck my arse!” Lizzie shouted back before the door slammed shut behind her again.

   The day obviously was not off to a good start.

   It did not become any better when he sat next to Potter in first period Charms and his body started to rebel against him. With the raven-haired boy a mere few inches away, he was pretty much in a constant state of electrified excitement, with his heart beating faster, his insides burning and fluttering, and his skin tingling.

   He just wanted to reach out his hand under the table and touch him.

   Every cell in his body seemed to be screaming for physical contact with Potter, and regardless of how utterly preposterous and appalling that was, he eventually could not deny it anymore.

   Slowly, inconspicuously, he moved his right leg to the side, so slowly that no-one else would be able to detect the movement. Just a fraction of an inch every time … until his knee and the lower half of his thigh pressed against Potter’s.

   For several long seconds, his heart beat painfully hard in his chest and his senses were hyper aware of his immediate surroundings. He was dead scared that Potter would pull his leg away in shocked disgust and start yelling at him, not only deflecting Draco’s tentative advance but also destroying his reputation.

   He thought he detected a slight jerk from Potter when he initiated the touch, and the other boy seemed to be very stiff afterwards.

   But he did not move his leg away.

   From that moment on, Draco could not help but stealthily moving his leg closer every single lesson, so that they sat there in tense silence, secretly touching.

   This was really starting to be a problem for him, and he wondered quietly to himself if he was going mental. Having Potter in all his classes might have been the worst idea he had ever had; the gruff Gryffindor messed with his concentration. He could not keep up in class, and when they were studying together at the library his eyes kept wandering to Potter more often than to his notes.

   Even worse was how his blood surged when they were practicing Muggle Sports together at night. Practicing physical activities together was probably dangerous—insane! Being close to the raven-haired boy had him constantly on edge, constantly longing to pull him down onto the ground and have his way with him …

   As if that was not enough, Luna’s persistent presence was driving him mad! She always had to be _right there_ , always taking a seat close to Potter and always talking so familiarly with him … One night when they opted for studying in the common room rather than the library she even coaxed him into lying down with his head in her lap—and she was _petting his hair_!

   Eventually the pent-up frustration and sexual tension had him shaking, and he did not even know if Potter was feeling the same way. Hell, he _hoped_ that prat was not affected by the magnetic pull that was so effectively drawing Draco in! As long as it was just him, he could win over it.

   In order to not start climbing the walls, he signalled Blaise to meet him in the Room of Requirement late that Thursday evening. As soon as the dark-skinned boy showed up, he ordered him over to the window and practically ripped his clothes off. Made him bend over for him, supported on the wide window seat.

   Being the vain and narcissistic person that he was, Draco enjoyed fucking his subject in front of his own reflection; it excited and emboldened him. Seeing his own face, with its perfect features, and his own body, with its powerful and masculine definition, always got him off and made the sex infinitely better.

   And being able to see the face of his prey as he granted him divine pleasure was rather exhilarating, too.

   That smooth, sun-kissed skin that seemed to glow golden in the torchlight; that mischievous, midnight-black hair that framed those sculpturally chiselled features; the soft, sensuous curve of the thin lips that Draco longed to envelop with his own; those intense, sexy emerald eyes that stared back at him with such naked hunger …

   Fingers trembling with electrified anticipation, he traced the line of the other boy’s athletic back, finally letting his hand come to rest on the broad shoulder. He gripped it tightly and used it as extra leverage as he pushed deeper into him, all the while keeping eye contact with Potter’s reflection.

   A smile of genuine pleasure briefly curved his lips when he saw the other boy’s expression of ecstasy.

   Then a frown furrowed his brow. His brain, taking backseat position to his pulsating cock, slowly caught up and shot off a silent alarm. Going absolutely cold on the inside, he realised that he was imagining that it was _Potter_ grunting beneath him—that it was _Potter_ he was currently thrusting his dick into. And even as it began to dawn on him how sick that was, the fantasised Gryffindor’s reflection grinned deviously at him, taunting him; _having a laugh_.

   Draco frantically disengaged himself from Blaise and backed away, heart pounding in utter dread. Cold sweat was running down his back and the hairs on his neck were standing up.

   _What the Hell am I doing?_ he thought to himself, on the verge of panic. _What_ the fuck _is wrong with me?!_

   In front of him, Blaise straightened up and turned around with an inquiring look on his face. “Drake, what’s up?” he wondered, confusion clouding his dark eyes.

   Draco at first could not get a single word out; his throat was constricting and warning him that he was about to be sick. But when the other boy advanced on him, he found his voice and shrieked: “Get out! Get the fuck away from me!”

   Baffled, Blaise merely stared at him for a while. “Draco, what—”

   “ _I said get the fuck away from me!_ ” he bellowed, and the turmoil inside him made his command so strong that it became magically enhanced.

   Blaise immediately turned and walked off towards the door, not even stopping to collect his clothes.

   As soon as he was alone, Draco sank down on the edge of the bed, his legs suddenly giving out. He sat there for a very long time, shaking and fearing for his sanity.

   Then he took out a bottle of Swott Malt Whiskey that he had hidden in the room a long time ago and miserably drank himself to sleep.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Friday, September 18, Harry swiftly noticed that something was up with the blonde. The first sign was that he did not say anything when the raven-haired boy picked him up, and he seemed to be in a much fouler mood than usual. Squinting at the torches lighting up the corridors and wincing at the slightest noise, Malfoy seemed to be having a splitting headache.

   The mere smell of food seemed to make him sick, so neither he nor Harry got much of a breakfast in them that morning. He did not seem to be feeling well at all.

   But that was not the whole picture. The past few days, as they had been taking their classes together and pretty much spent all day in each other’s reluctant company, the Slytherin had become somewhat less sharp-tongued. Now he snapped and lashed out at the slightest communication from Harry.

   And he did not move his leg in close to Harry’s anymore.

   Just a week ago, that would have been a given—a relief—but now it was a great disappointment. He had got used to feeling the blonde’s leg pressing against his own, and he had even deluded himself into believing that something might be happening between them. Inexperienced as he was, he had no idea what that might be, but it had nonetheless made his heart beat faster in hope.

   When lunch came along, Malfoy stated that he needed some fresh air and directed them outside. Stomach growling with hunger by that time, Harry protested and tried to get permission to at least run into the Great Hall and fetch them some fruit, but he was immediately shot down.

   Muttering irritably to himself and not paying attention to where he was putting his feet, Harry suddenly tripped over a stick and fell over.

   Reacting on a lightning-quick reflex, Malfoy stretched out his arms and caught him. Blinking in astonishment, Harry found himself half-standing awkwardly bent into the blonde’s slender, muscular chest, with his pale hands supportively gripping his upper arms.

   Shocked still, he stared up into the Slytherin’s wide-open silver eyes, apparently just as baffled by what he had just done.

   Being right there in Malfoy’s embrace, the heady scent of him and that wonderful cologne he wore made every single nerve ending in Harry’s body buzz with life; pleasant shivers passed through him and made his crotch pulsate. Fuck, he loved that smell!

   He reflexively opened his mouth as his eyes fell on the blonde’s soft-looking, full lips and felt the now familiar, tingling, _burning_ need to feel them on his own.

   For a moment, Harry thought he felt the blonde’s hands shifting on his arms, uncertainly sliding a few inches upwards, as if he was caressing him. But when Harry euphorically drew a deep breath of his nemesis’ scent, Malfoy violently pushed him away, almost toppling him over and undoing the previous save.

   “Did … did you just _sniff_ me?!” he exclaimed in utter disgust.

   Trying to regain his balance with at least some sort of dignity, Harry pointedly would not meet the blonde’s gaze. “I needed to take a deep breath, ‘s all,” he said indignantly. “It is all right with you that I breathe now and then, isn’t it?”

   Malfoy did not seem convinced, for he took a hold of his bag’s shoulder strap and callously pulled it off Harry’s shoulder. “I think I can manage on my own for a while,” he declared hotly. “Now fuck off!”

   Chastised, Harry trudged back up to the castle, feeling ashamed and oddly afraid of being permanently ordered away from the blonde’s side. He did not understand it. He had always hated Malfoy’s guts, and now—less than a month into the new term—he was suddenly scared of being banished from his vicinity?

   He was definitely losing it now.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That evening, the Slytherin girls were having a party for the Patil twins, who were turning eighteen. When they were distracted, Draco swiped a bottle of Superior Red—which was ironically manufactured by a company owned by his own family—from their stash and retreated to his bed.

   Things were getting out of hand. His attraction to Potter was reaching dangerous levels, making him do things that he never would have done under normal circumstances. It had to stop. Somehow, he had to shake himself out of it, before he lost all control of himself.

   “Drinking away your problems? Really, Malfoy?”

   Draco stiffened. No … he could not have … Could he?

   Throwing the curtain aside in dread, he stuck his head out—and found Potter standing by the right side of his bed with a smug, knowing grin on his aggravatingly handsome face.

   “How the Hell did you get in here?” he asked, too shocked to even feel violated by this breach of privacy.

   Potter just tilted his head and sized him up with something distinctly patronising in his emerald eyes. “Drowning your sorrows in your own family’s wine, is that how low you have sunk now?” he taunted, and Draco instantly felt his blood beginning to boil with righteous wrath.

   “If you know what is best for you, you will shut the fuck up—right—now,” he warned between gritted teeth, rising from the bed and slowly advancing on the Gryffindor for intimidating effect.

   “Oh yeah? And what’ll happen if I don’t? Are you gonna ‘make me regret it?’”

   Draco let out a roar of pent-up frustration and grabbed the shorter boy by the shoulders, forcefully pushing him backwards until he slammed up against the stone wall with a satisfying _thunk_. Face to face with the messy-haired prat, their noses almost touching, he breathed out a low warning: “If you don’t mind yourself, you will find your face creatively rearranged, so help me Salazar.”

   He awaited the meek submission that would come any second now, any second now …

   Potter _laughed_.

   He was laughing Draco straight in the face!

   That made something snap inside the blonde, and he fisted his right hand to smash in that mocking, belittling face. Felt his arm being raised, almost as if an invisible entity was controlling it. But in the last second, he instead found himself violently pressing his lips to Potter’s and desperately grabbing hold of him to force him closer.

   The raven-haired boy instantly threw his arms around Draco’s back and, head tilted upwards in welcome, opened his mouth to expel a sigh of delight. Taking full advantage, Draco pushed his tongue into Potter’s mouth and felt his manhood swelling and jerking awake with a pounding need for release as the other boy happily met him halfway.

   He had never before experienced such a fierce and incredibly hot reaction to snogging, neither had he ever felt such a powerful, undeniable, pure lust; he just _had_ to have Potter, right then and there. And just as he realised that himself, he felt the raven-haired boy’s hands inside his robes, fumblingly feeling around for the catch in his tailored trousers.

   Mewling excitedly into his mouth, Draco whipped out his wand and made good use of his proficiency with nonverbal spells by magically stripping them of their clothes.

   “Are you gonna punish me now?” Potter asked between kisses with an excited, teasing glint in his hot eyes.

   Draco gave him a final, deep kiss that ended with him nibbling on the other boy’s lower lip. “You bet I am,” he growled, hoarse with desire. Then he violently spun Potter around so he was pressing into the wall face-first. Placing heated kisses along the nape of the anticipatory raven-haired boy, he positioned himself and slowly, carefully pushed inside, earning a small outcry from Potter.

   It was hard to take it slow—it felt incredible to finally be joined with the object of his overwhelming desire and he just wanted to thrust mercilessly into that blissful tightness—but he checked himself, not wanting to hurt the other boy.

   Marvelling at the smoothness of Potter’s semi-arched back, he let his hands travel up and down that masculine landscape, trembling pleasantly from the intimate skin-to-skin contact.

   Potter leaned his head back into the crook of Draco’s neck and whispered seductively into his ear: “Show me what a true Malfoy is made of and _fuck_ me.”

   Drawing a shallow breath that was shaky with arousal, he could not disoblige such a frank and exhilarating plea; with a mischievous grin forming on his face, he began to move faster, more assuredly. The raven-haired boy kept urging him to thrust faster, harder, faster, harder—and Draco happily slammed into him at ever higher speeds, pressing close into him, cradling Potter’s entire body in his embrace.

   Throwing his head backwards in ecstasy, Potter let out uninhibited shouts of pleasure that made him mad with lust and power. It felt amazing …

   “Harder, Draco,” he begged, “fuck me harder!”

   Hearing him saying his name like that—his true name—became too much for him, and he completely lost himself in the moment. His chest felt full to the brim, fluttering and fuzzily warm; it was just so elevating to once and for all be recognised for who he was.

   “ _Malfoy, you bloody prick, get out here and shut this fucking thing off!_ ” a very distant voice that sounded sort of like Potter was shouting at the top of its lungs, clearly pissed by something.

   He ignored it; nothing could drag him away from Harry now.

   The other boy started to tremble and buck against him, and he savoured every moan and cry escaping his throat; kissed his jaw right beneath the earlobe.

   “ _Malfoy, I swear to Merlin I will break down this bloody door if you don’t get—the fuck—out—here—NOW!_ ” the voice persisted from somewhere outside the room, louder than before, and it did indeed sound an awful lot like Harry’s …

   A pillow came shooting through the air and hit him square in the face. “Get the fuck out there and shut him up already!” Blaise bellowed angrily. “And stop moaning in your sleep like some pervert, some people would like to bloody sleep in peace!”

   Bewildered, Draco blinked at his roommate and turned his head from side to side, gazing out over the dark room. He was on his bed, fully clothed, and the bottle of Superior Red was at his side, seemingly empty now.

   And finally it dawned on him what was going on: He had drunk himself to sleep again, and this time the inebriated slumber had come with a very vivid dream.

   And now the real Harry— _Potter_ , his name was _Potter_ and nothing else!—was standing outside the Slytherin Dungeon demanding that he come out.

   Brilliant. Just fucking brilliant.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The magical pager alarm went off at 03:42 in the morning and woke Harry with a start. “What the Hell …” Malfoy was calling him _in the middle of the bloody night_?! That was the last straw! Who the Hell did he think he was, disrupting even Harry’s sleep now?

   Beside himself with anger, he stalked off to the Dungeons and furiously banged on the hidden door as hard as he could.

   The beeping was driving him mad!

   Pointing his wand at himself, he cast the _Sonorous_ Charm to amplify his voice. “Malfoy, you bloody prick, get out here and shut this fucking thing off!” he yelled as loudly as he could, hoping for the blonde’s sake that it would carry all the way into the dormitories. Since he had not been to that part of the dungeon himself, he had no idea how deep under the lake it may lie.

   He pounded even harder on the stone, knowing full well that he would regret it later when the adrenaline drained out of him and he could feel the pain of his smashed knuckles. “ _Malfoy, I swear to Merlin I will break down this bloody door if you don’t get—the fuck—out—here—NOW!_ ”

   He was just shaping his mouth around the first syllable of _Bombarda_ when the secret door finally swung open and revealed a dishevelled-looking Malfoy on the other side.

   “Wha—what are you doing here?” the blonde wondered uncharacteristically meekly.

   Since Harry was still outside of the three-foot radius specified in the spell, he simply stared at the drowsy Slytherin in indignation.

   Malfoy started when he registered the beeping. “Oh.” A frown settled on his brow.

   “What the Hell is it you want in the middle of the bloody night that can’t wait until morning?” Harry asked unkindly.

   The frown on the blonde’s face deepened to a confused scowl. “I … I didn’t call for you. Did I?” He seemed to be seriously considering the possibility. Then, as if he was thinking out loud, he muttered, “It couldn’t be because of the dream, could it?”

   Harry impatiently shifted his feet. “Well, it doesn’t matter now—just undo the bloody thing so this doesn’t have to happen again,” he demanded.

   Luckily, the blonde was so tired that he did not remember that this was his archenemy standing before him and lifted the spell with a low, almost demure murmur. His cheeks were pink and his eyes were suspiciously shifty.

   Wondering if there was some kind of trick behind all this, Harry gave the Slytherin a once-over. His robes were not completely shut, so Harry could clearly see the tent that was supported by something hard that was _not_ his wand. Instinctively, his eyes shot back up to the blonde’s flushed face. Luckily, he did not seem to have noticed the Gryffindor’s straying gaze.

   Malfoy was standing in front of him with an erection.

   That in itself was a very unusual and shocking occurrence, but what was even more disturbing was the reaction it caused to Harry’s own body. Blood was pumping through his system at excessive speed, and it all rushed down into his crotch. When he felt the unmistakable rise of his own member, he uncomfortably closed his dressing gown more tightly around himself.

   A female voice broke the silence that had settled between them. “Draco, come back to bed already!”

   They both jumped. Pansy Parkinson was standing inside the common room with her arms authoritatively crossed over her chest.

   The puzzle pieces were coming together, assembling a picture that he did not want to acknowledge. Malfoy was having an erection. Parkinson was calling for him to come back to bed. So, she was the reason for …?

   Harry’s heart sank several floors before hitting rock bottom. Picturing Malfoy with someone else made his chest constrict to such a degree that he found it hard to breathe—and it _hurt_. It hurt like nothing else he had ever experienced, and before he could even reflect on what he was doing he had turned on his heel and fled the Dungeons.

   Only when being confronted by the fact that the blonde was dating someone did Harry realise that the physical attraction he had been feeling for him might have been but the first symptom of something deeper. If it had merely been sexual—a bout of teenage hormones running wild—it would not have hurt like this.

   So, what? He fancied Malfoy?

   It did not matter much when the object of his fancy was already attached and would not give him a second glance even if he was the last person on the planet. And if it was going to hurt like this …

   Why could not he have fancied someone else instead— _any_ one else? It would have been so much easier and so much less painful …

   The rest of the night was spent sitting in the middle of his four-poster, unable to sleep; unable to stop his head from spinning with thoughts about Malfoy and Parkinson banging. He just wanted to scream until the unwanted, heart wrenching images were purged from his brain.

   He needed something to distract him; something that would counteract and replace these traitor feelings.

   Somehow, close to dawn, a desperate and highly questionable idea took form, and even though he knew that it was wrong on so many levels he could not deny that it might just solve all his problems. Because there was someone else who fancied him and who would be good for him—would be good _to_ him. Someone who could help him forget about Malfoy.

   When Cedric woke shortly after seven, Harry asked to talk to him. Understanding what this must be about, the taller boy immediately agreed and followed him out of the dorm.

   They walked down to the Quidditch pitch, where they knew they would have privacy. Both feeling a bit nervous and awkward, they kept shifting their eyes.

   Harry had trouble striking up the conversation even though he had been the one to initiate this tête-à-tête. Clearing his throat several times, he was finally able to say, “I’ve thought about what you said, and I … I’d like to give it a go. If—if you’re still interested, I mean.”

   He felt like an arsehole when he saw Cedric’s face lighting up. This was not right of him; his heart was not in it. But surely he would come to his senses once they were together and realise that Cedric was the better choice for him. Right?

   “Really?” Cedric whispered, not believing what he was hearing.

   Harry blushed and felt incredibly uncomfortable under the other boy’s stare. “Yeah,” he still forced himself to say, “let’s see where this will take us. But, er … I’m really nervous, ‘cos … I’ve never dated anyone before.”

   Cedric frowned. “You’ve never … But what about Luna?”

   Harry actually laughed at that. “No, no—that’s just a rumour,” he assured his roommate. “She’s like a sister to me. But you know how people work in this school; as soon as two people spend more than five minutes together they must automatically be a couple.”

   That seemed to soothe Cedric, for he nodded with a relieved smile. Almost instantly, he became serious again. Looking Harry straight in the eye, he said, “We don’t have to tell anyone about this if you don’t want to. We can keep this completely between you and me until you’re comfortable with … I mean, I know you’re not …”

   Words apparently failed him, but Harry thought he knew what he was getting at. “Out?” he supplied, a wry smile playing on his lips. “Yeah, that’s something I’ve never considered other people’s business. So if it’s all the same to you, let’s not make this a public thing for a while, yeah?”

   Even though what he said was true—he did think that his sexual orientation was his business and his alone—he also knew that the real reason why he did not want to go public with Cedric was to keep that knowledge from Malfoy. The Slytherin had already pinned him as a poof and he really did not need more mockery from his side, not when Malfoy was the true object of his fancy.

   He was pulled out of his musings when the other boy suddenly embraced him. Stiff and insecure, he just stood there, not knowing what to do. Eventually, he lifted his arms and put them around Cedric.

   _This is better_ , he thought in an attempt to convince himself the end would justify the means. _This is better than being miserable over that insufferable git. He’s straight, anyway, so just forget about him._

   They took a long walk together before their Quidditch practice started at nine, strolling along the wall that ringed the Hogwarts grounds. For every minute that passed, they relaxed a little bit more. Cedric did most of the talking, and after a while he even had the courage to take Harry’s hand in his. It felt weird, holding hands with someone who had been a close friend of his for years, but he allowed it. After all, it was expected, was it not?

   As they closed in on the gates, they stopped, deciding that it would be better to turn back rather than risk being seen lurking about the exit. Harry made to walk back the same way they had come, but before he could take a single step Cedric caught him in his arms again and brought their lips together in a tentative, experimental kiss.

   _No, no, this is wrong_ , a tiny voice in the back of his head said, _you can’t do this to him—you need to tell him the truth!_

_This is wrong—this is not who you’re supposed to be snogging!_ his heart seemed to object in the exact same moment, but he chose to ignore them both and kissed Cedric back.

   _It’s better like this_ , he insisted to himself.

   But it did not make him feel any better.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco had to thank Pansy in his mind for yelling at him to go back to bed, because if she had not there was no telling what he might have done in his … excited state. Having wet dreams about Potter was disturbing enough without adding actual real-life indulgences.

   Drinking tea with Sirius as per usual on Saturday mornings was a pleasant and much welcome change to the emotional turmoil of the past few days. He also appreciated that there was no pressure to talk; he really detested that everyone expected you to engage in small-talk to fill the silence. Sirius always seemed to sense when he needed some quiet and respected that.

   After lunch, he took to the library together with Luna and Potter. It had practically become a constant, their studying together. But unlike on other days, Potter sat down next to Luna instead of taking his usual seat next to Draco.

   For some peculiar reason, this bothered Draco and made him feel cast aside. Sure, Potter still did as he was told, but other than that he did not so much as spare a glance for the blonde. The prick only spoke to Luna. In fact, now that Draco thought about it, the Gryffindor had been careful to put Luna between them all day …

   Making a point of showing him that he preferred Luna over him?

   It irritated him immensely, and for every look the couple exchanged—every laugh they shared—his insides heated up another notch until he was positively boiling with indignation.

   As soon as Potter had left, he pulled Luna aside, intent on confronting her once and for all. She just looked up at him questioningly, her dreamy, grey eyes almost unnervingly calm.

   But he was not going to let that perturb him.

   “What exactly is between you and Potter?” he asked much more sharply than he had intended. Quickly, so as not to seem like he actually cared whether she was dating the Gryffindor or not, he cleared his throat and added: “You know, I’m just wondering why you haven’t told me, since we’re friends. If you and Potter are … dating—”

   “Oh, but we’re not dating,” Luna interrupted, and made him blink in bafflement.

   “You’re not?”

   “Nope. There’s nothing going on between Harry and me,” she assured him, and then winked conspiratorially. “I’m asexual and aromantic, so I won’t steal him away.”

   Bewildered, Draco asked, “What does that even mean, and how is it supposed to prove that you’re not dating Potter?”

   Giving him a lopsided, teasing grin, she playfully tapped the tip of his nose with her index finger. “You’re so silly, Draco. ‘Asexual’ means I don’t get sexually attracted and ‘aromantic’ means I don’t get romantically interested—in anyone. So, you see, there can never be anything between Harry and me, or between anyone and me, really.”

   Draco started. “Oh …” But then he realised that there was another party in the mix. “Does Har-are-brained Potter know that?” he pressed, and almost face-palmed himself for being a hair’s breadth away from calling the Gryffindor ‘Harry.’

   What the fuck was wrong with him?!

   Luna put her hand on his arm and gave it a small squeeze. “Don’t worry, Draco, we’ve just known each other forever. He’s practically my brother.”

And with those words, she skipped off, absentmindedly humming an old lullaby.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was Hermione’s 18th birthday and the Gryffindors were assembled in the common room to celebrate her. Harry stayed at her side for most of the evening, intent on showing her that she meant a lot to him. Ever since Malfoy had started to take up all of Harry’s time, he had hardly seen his best friend and was feeling rather guilty about that.

   “Don’t worry, Harry,” she reassured him, and put a hand on his, “I know you’ve had your hands full lately. No-one here blames you for being away.”

   He nodded, averting his eyes uncomfortably. It felt awkward somehow, being back amongst his friends after almost a whole week away from them, but at the same time it gave him a nice, relaxed sensation. He was finally among people who liked and appreciated him again.

   And seeing Hermione’s reaction when she opened up the complete collection of first editions of Merlin’s works convinced him that he was in the right place. “Oh, my God!” she exclaimed, shock and excitement making her revert to old Muggle sayings. “Thank you, thank you, thank you!”

   Harry let out an _oof_ when she threw herself around his neck. “You’re welcome,” he laughed.

   When she pulled away, she affectionately grabbed his cheeks and gave them a good tug. “If I weren’t already engaged, I would so be your girlfriend right now!” she joked.

   “It is a great loss to live with,” Harry retorted in mock sadness.

   She slapped him on the arm. “Hey! Don’t be such a self-centred git!”

   “Wha—Hermione, I meant it was a great loss to _me_!” he objected, laughing even harder when she blushed in embarrassment.

   All throughout the night, Harry noticed that Cedric was stealing uncertain glances at him and he eventually realised that he would have to excuse himself and sneak off with the other boy. If he really was going to focus on forgetting Malfoy, he would have to act the part.

   So when Hermione and Ginny started to play with Oliver, he said he needed some air and steered his steps to a balcony one level lower in Gryffindor Tower. While he stood leaning against the railing, looking out over the Hogwarts grounds, he wished that Cedric would not follow him; that he would be left alone there in the chilly autumn air.

   Unfortunately, the taller boy joined him only minutes later, smiling nervously and endearingly shyly as he sidled up next to Harry. “Hey,” he murmured.

   “Hey,” Harry replied. “Ni-nice weather this evening.”

   He closed his eyes and winced at his own imbecility.

   Apparently Cedric thought his nervousness was related to his first staggering steps into romance territory, for he put a hand on top of Harry’s and squeezed it reassuringly. “It is a very pleasant evening,” he agreed kindly, “but I personally prefer the view that’s right in front of me.”

   Frowning in confusion, Harry opened his eyes again and noticed that Cedric was looking at him. When their eyes met, it was as if Cedric picked up on a sign that Harry had not been aware of giving, because he slowly bent down and kissed him.

   Mechanically, Harry semi-pursed his lips to not seem rude or unresponsive. Prior to this, he had never really snogged anyone so he was not sure what to do. Should he have his mouth closed or open? Should he try to use his tongue? And if he did, should he swirl it around or keep it mostly still? Just stick it in there and poke around a bit? What if he did something wrong that would betray his inexperience?

   But since he had already admitted to never having dated that was probably already implied …

   Fortunately for him, Cedric proved to be very patient and not at all minding that he would have to teach Harry as they went along. And as the kisses deepened, Harry was beginning to feel the ghost of a response from his body. It was merely a faint flicker compared to the violent attraction he had felt for Malfoy, but it was at least a start.

   Maybe he would be able to get over the blonde after all.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Potter kept ignoring him for most of the Sunday, too, and it was really starting to grate on Draco. Why did that blasted Gryffindor twat not respond when he was trying to be civil, and why did he not meet Draco’s gaze even once? What would he have to do to get the attention that he rightfully deserved?!

   Those questions and dozens of others milled around inside his head during his afternoon Quidditch practice, occasionally distracting him from the mock game going on around him. His eyes kept straying to the Gryffindor stands, from where Potter was watching the session.

   The raven-haired boy looked bored; he was sitting hunched over with his face resting in his hand and some sort of string shoved into his ears. Now and then, he yawned excessively.

   So, he thought this was boring, eh? Then maybe Draco should show him some really elaborate and impressive tricks to shake him out of his stupor?

   Determined to give Potter a show like none ever experienced before, Draco scanned the pitch for a glint of gold. After maybe five minutes, he spotted the characteristic golden fluttering of the   
Snitch and immediately shot off after it. He expertly weaved between his teammates in his pursuit of the tiny, flying ball, confident that his skills were shining like rays of sunlight reflected off a lake. Soon, he would have Potter’s full attention again; soon—

   Something big and hard crashed into his foot while he was in the middle of a complicated manoeuver, and he could hear the ankle _crack_ before he even registered the pain. Because of the powerful impact, he was sent spinning through the air, his eyes wide open in astonishment.

   “Malfoy!” he heard Potter exclaiming from the stands.

   Then came the pain. It radiated out from the broken bone all the way up his leg and into his hip, but his foot felt oddly numb, as if it was merely dead weight. His first thought was, _Bugger, I’ve severed a nerve_ ; his second thought was, _I’m going to crash_.

   But before he could hit the ground, he heard Potter shouting, “ _Arresto Momentum!_ ”

   He was slowly, gently directed downwards and put on the ground.

   His teammates touched ground shortly thereafter and came running towards him, calling out to him, asking if he was all right. The pain was so sharp that it temporarily stole away his senses; he could neither hear nor see them. His vision was strangely blurred, so all he could make out was several pairs of fuzzy-looking legs.

   A figure clad in scarlet thumped down next to him. “Malfoy, are you all right?” it asked, and as soon as Draco recognised it as Potter’s voice his vision started to clear up. The raven-haired boy was looking down at him with a worried frown on his chiselled face. “Just stay still, I’ll get my broom and fly you to the Hospital Wi—”

   “No!” Draco protested loudly, making the Gryffindor jump in fright. He began to rise from the ground, ignoring the pain shooting up through his right leg. “I’m fine. I’ll walk there.”

   Potter gave him an incredulous glare. “Walk?! Your ankle is broken!”

   Stubbornly grabbing hold of Potter’s arm and pulling himself up on his one good foot, he proclaimed: “I will make it just fine if you allow me to support myself on your shoulder. I am _not_ flying to the Hospital Wing for a bloody broken ankle!”

   Rolling his eyes, Potter said, “Okay, whatever. Let’s go, then, Princess.”

   Limping along, he growled: “If you call me that again the first thing I’ll do when my foot is mended is kill you. Twice.”

   “Oh, _twice_ , even? Better keep my mouth shut, then.”

   They kept bickering for quite some time while they were slowly moving towards the castle, and it helped distract Draco from the pain. That was probably a good thing, because he had a very low pain threshold and hopping along like a bloody bunny rabbit did not exactly help.

   Besides, it was not all that bad to be leaning on Potter … feeling his wiry strength, being almost-carried by him … Being close to him without it getting awkward.

   Eventually, they ran out of insults and just continued on in silence. After a few minutes like that, Draco pseudo-offhandedly threw out the question about Luna that had been burning on his tongue the whole day. Not that he did not trust Luna; he simply wanted to hear Potter’s side, as well. He had to know before it ate him up from inside.

   “We grew up together,” Potter told him conversationally. “Her mother is my godmother. She was in Mum’s year and they’ve been best friends ever since.”

   Oh … Luna’s statement that Harry was like a brother to her now made more sense. So, they really were not dating, then.

   A weight he had not been aware of lifted from his chest and a new lightness of spirit carried him the rest of the way to the castle and up to the Hospital Wing, where Madam Pomfrey set to work on his broken ankle.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After the Monday Arithmancy lesson, Harry was in dire need of help because he did not understand _anything_. Due to a History of Magic assignment due Tuesday, there had been no time to study anything else until Tuesday evening. Since Malfoy was top of the class in Arithmancy, Harry sat next to him at the library so he could partake of the blonde’s notes.

   But even though he could clearly read what the Slytherin had written, he did not understand a word of what he was reading. “This is making no sense to me,” he stated, shaking his head for extra emphasis.

   Malfoy leaned in over his shoulder to show him more directly how to solve the problem in front of him, and he was probably saying something really clever, too, but Harry could not hear a word. All he could focus on was Malfoy’s mouth mere inches from his own, and seeing those full lips moving (to his mind) seductively so close to him made him swallow hard.

   His own lips parted, he could do nothing but stare at the side of the blonde’s face, aching to bridge the minuscule gap and kiss him. It did not help that Malfoy’s cologne washed over him, making his knees weak and his heart skip a beat.

   Still in the middle of explaining something to him, Malfoy turned to look at him—and stiffened. It seemed like he had not realised just how close they were and now did not know what to do.

   Harry’s heart began to beat at a dangerous speed when the blonde kept looking into his eyes, almost daring to hope that there was more to his hesitation than mere shock. That maybe, just maybe, Malfoy was feeling the magnetic pull, too.

   Then the blonde broke eye contact and swiftly turned away, his face turning red. Looking this way and that—anywhere but at Harry, apparently—he stuttered out that he needed to use the loo and hurriedly stalked away.

   Harry gazed after him, burning with humiliation, himself.

   Across from him, Luna was grinning teasingly at him.

   “Shut up,” he said, and buried his face in a book.

   Okay, so maybe it was going to be a little harder than that to get over him. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Never thought you’d make me perspire_  
>  Never thought I’d do you the same  
> Never thought I’d fill with desire  
> Never thought I’d feel so ashamed 
> 
> – Placebo, _My Sweet Prince_


	8. To Admit or Not to Admit

 

It seemed like Malfoy was wary around him again, because ever since that loaded moment in the library he became irked as soon as Harry came within five steps of him. For the first time since the blonde had forced him into Slytherin’s classes, he sat down next to someone else and left Harry to find himself another tablemate.

   In their first period Herbology lesson that Wednesday, Harry wound up between Luna and Goyle. It proved a lot different than working with Malfoy; Luna frequently made bewildering non sequitur comments that reflected her unique view of the world while Goyle seemed to communicate solely through gentle gestures.

   Across the table from them, Xerxes McGonagall was studying the three of them with an incredulous expression on his face, clearly wondering how they could understand each other at all.

   In Study of Ancient Runes, which was taught by Luna’s father, Harry sat next to Miles Bletchley, who turned out to be remarkably capable. His cold intelligence and single-minded focus on the task at hand proved beneficial to whoever sat close enough to peek at his notes.

   In Potions right before lunch, the blonde was driving Harry mad. Since they were partners they had to work together whether they wanted to or not, and it was very clear that Malfoy did not. His tongue was sharper than ever and his looks so acid that Harry felt like checking if they had burnt holes into him.

   So after that morning, he was happy to get some time with Hermione in Care of Magical Creatures. Professor Hagrid was instructing them on how to properly care for the school’s flock of Thestrals and allowed them to feed them in groups of four. Harry was sitting next to Hermione while their partners, the Smith twins from Hufflepuff, were arguing excitedly a few yards away.

   “You look tired,” Hermione commented with a slight touch of worry in her voice as she threw a piece of raw meat to the Thestral foal in front of them.

   Harry chuckled dryly. “That’s the least of my problems,” he said before he could check himself.

   Even as he saw the wrinkle between her brows deepen, he realised that he might have said too much. She was his best friend, and she had always been the person he went to when there was something bothering him, but this time he was reluctant to tell her what the issue was. He simply did not know how she would react to him being gay and fancying _Malfoy_ of all people.

   Not that he thought she would distance herself from him if she learnt the truth; there were openly gay people already friends with them, most of them much less flamboyant than Ron, and Colleen Creevey in Ginny’s class was even transsexual.

   No, he was not worried about that. What he _was_ worried about was hurting her feelings when he finally came clean, since he had kept this a secret for years when really he should have trusted her a long time ago.

   But even though the secret was grating on him, he decided to keep quiet for now; this was not the time and place for such a crucial conversation.

   “You know how Malfoy is,” he just said instead, trying for a light and wry tone to lessen the gravity of the situation. Watching her from the corner of his eye, he noticed her relax when it turned out to be nothing but the usual. He gave her a smile and leaned in to her. “I’ve missed you.”

   Head-to-head, she reciprocated his smile. “I’ve missed you, too. But you know how to find me. Whenever you need some relief from those nasty Slytherins, you just come see me, okay?”

   He nodded appreciatively. “Always.”

   When he arrived for Arithmancy, which was the last lesson of the day, he expected conditions to be the same as in the morning and was just about to sit down next to Luna when a certain blond storm cloud appeared in front of him. “What do you think you’re doing, Potter? I require your services and you presume to be able to sit wherever you please?” he growled accusatorily.

   Blinking in bewilderment, Harry allowed himself to be dragged to the front of the class, where Malfoy had a table reserved. When the blonde forcefully pushed him down on his designated chair, he caught Cedric’s gaze across the room and blushed uncomfortably when the other boy gave him a knowing smile.

   As the day progressed, the blonde gradually calmed down, so by the time they joined up with Luna for their daily study session, he was back to normal—except for the fact that he looked exhausted. In favour of comfort over privacy, they went back to the Slytherin common room and sat down in a suite of couches.

   Malfoy was unusually absentminded and had even got out the wrong books. After searching through his bag, Harry established that the Alchemy books they needed were not there. “Did you leave them in your room this morning?” he therefore asked the blonde.

   “I suppose I did. Well, I guess we had better go find them, then. Potter, you will accompany me and dig them out of my trunk; I can’t be bothered with such a plebeian task.”

   This was of course to be expected since he was Malfoy’s servant, but Harry still could not help but be acutely aware of the fact that he was being led to the blonde’s bedroom. The deeper they got into the heart of the Slytherin dormitory, the more nervous he became. He almost could not see the stone corridor they were walking through because of the disturbing—but exciting—visions of Malfoy lounging on a four-poster, wrapped in emerald-and-silver silk …

   Apparently, the Slytherin dorm rooms differed somewhat from the Gryffindor ones; they were rectangular instead of circular, with one bed against the short side opposite the door and two beds against each long side.

   The four-posters themselves were different from the ones Harry was used to. The wood was darker and of a finer grain, not to mention more ornately carved, and the fabrics used for the bed linens, spread, and curtains were clearly more expensive—all in Slytherin emerald, of course. Both the bedspreads and the curtains were painstakingly embroidered with silver thread.

   The blonde went straight up to the bed that was standing against the short side and gracefully sat down on the edge of it. “My book trunk is right there by the foot of the bed,” he said tiredly, making a sweeping motion in the general direction he was indicating. “Whatever we need should be in there.”

   Harry might have known that the centre bed was Malfoy’s; it was just like him to want the best vantage point, to be able to easily keep watch over the other boys sharing the room with him.

   As he started to rummage through the trunk, he noticed that the blonde was massaging his temples. “Headache?” he wondered, and, without giving it a second thought, pulled out a bottle of Painkiller Potion from his robes pocket and threw it at him.

   Catching the tiny bottle with the reflexes of a cat, Malfoy stared down at it with a wary wrinkle between his brows. “Did you make this?” he asked suspiciously, obviously recognising the potion but not trusting Harry’s (admittedly meagre) skills.

   “No, Noe—” Remembering how the blonde reacted the last time he mentioned Noelle, Harry decided it was better to keep that little detail to himself. “A friend of mine made it,” he said instead, avoiding Malfoy’s eyes by focusing intently on searching through the neat stacks of books.

   Unstoppering the bottle, Malfoy murmured, “Granger always was a master brewer,” and gratefully downed its contents in one swig.

   Stunned to hear the blonde praising Hermione so easily, Harry opened his mouth to reply when a familiar cover caught his eye. Raising his eyebrows in astonishment, he picked up the book—and found two more of the series below it. Straightening up and finally looking at his reluctant companion, he said, “You read my father’s books?”

   A snort of pure disdain escaped the Slytherin. “Yeah, and the giant squid can fly!”

   Harry held up one of the books and waved it in front of Malfoy’s face. “Then what’s this?”

   Rolling his eyes, the blonde snatched the book out of his hand to have a closer look at it. Then his pale face turned into a smug sneer. “You must either be blind or really stupid,” he drawled self-righteously, pointing at the name on the cover. “This happens to be my favourite author, and although I _have_ heard that your father is a fiction writer, I assure you this is _not_ one of his books. _This_ is a mystery novel by the highly acclaimed Gilderoy Lockhart—”

   “Yeah, that’s my father’s pseudonym,” Harry cut in matter-of-factly.

   Malfoy temporarily lost his thread, blinking uncertainly at Harry, but quickly collected himself. “That is not possible. Authors sometimes employ pseudonyms, yes, but this obviously can’t be your father because he looks nothing like him.”

   He was clearly referring to the jacket photograph that showed a brilliantly smiling, curly-haired blond man. Harry could see how that might be confusing. “Well, that’s photoshopped,” he therefore told the blonde.

   Malfoy blinked sheepishly at him again. “Photo shot? Aren’t all photos shot?”

   Now it was Harry’s turn to be confused, before he realised that the blonde of course did not know about photoshopping because he had been brought up in a pure-blood family. He therefore tried to explain it in as simple terms as he could, which proved a taxing challenge.

   When the other boy finally seemed to grasp the concept and his brain made the connection between ‘Gilderoy Lockhart’ and James Potter, he gasped and let go of the book, as if it had just bitten him. “I can’t believe I have been reading _your father’s_ books this entire time!” he expelled, apparently appalled at the mere thought. “I will never read another one again! Get rid of them— _now_!”

   On the inside, Harry thought that Malfoy was overreacting. So what if the novels he had enjoyed for years happened to be written by someone he did not like personally? But he kept quiet and collected the seven worn volumes to discard of them.

   The blonde was silent for the rest of the evening, sulking in a corner of a three-seat couch, so Luna and Harry ignored him and worked on their own assignments.

   Some of the other Slytherins seemed to be getting used to having Harry around, for they did not mock him quite as often as they used to. A few times one of them even made close-to-polite conversation with him. Although he did not understand why, he felt rather pleased with that. Maybe it was not impossible for a Slytherin to accept a Gryffindor, after all.

   His eyes strayed to Malfoy.

   Maybe …

 

 

* * *

 

 

Blaise was trying to get him alone, and Draco knew that nothing good could come out of that. Considering how their latest rendezvous had ended … He shuddered at the mere thought of repeating that mortification. Unfortunately, since the other boy had no idea what had been going through Draco’s mind at the time, he would not give up but kept coming at him.

   It was fine as long as Potter was at his side; the Gryffindor actually proved a rather useful shield. But since it was Thursday, said Gryffindor left his side twice to go to classes that Draco did not take, the first being right before lunch.

   Somehow, he managed to stay off Blaise’s radar during that period, but he instead stumbled across the first-year Hufflepuffs and Gryffindors having a study period in a room off the library and wound up helping out with their Magical Theory assignments due to Potter’s snotty little sister proclaiming that he was the most brilliant bloke in school.

   Better not tell Potter about _that_ …

   He was not as lucky after dinner, though. When his servant left for Ancient Studies, Draco stupidly thought he could hide in the art room. Blaise had never sought him out there and it was questionable that he even knew of the room’s existence. But on this particular day, he hardly even had time to breathe a sigh of relief as he stepped into the solitude of the studio.

   Blaise was waiting for him in the back of the room.

   Draco stopped when he caught sight of him, a cold dread filling him up inside. He did _not_ want to talk to him, because there would inevitably be questions about his sudden panic last week. And if he so much as _thought_ about the reason behind his … inability to perform … then he would have to admit to himself that—

   “Why are you avoiding me?” the dark-skinned boy demanded, and interrupted his inner turmoil.

   He did intend to reply. Something. Anything. But every time he opened his mouth, his voice failed him, and his cheeks began to burn with humiliation.

   Draco Malfoy—speechless? That was preposterous!

   Blaise defiantly crossed his arms over his broad, muscular chest and tried to stare him down. Being hardly more than an inch taller than Draco, however, his attempt to tower over him did not work. On the contrary, it served to break the blonde out of his temporary paralysis.

   Facing his friend down, Draco adopted an air of mildly vexed impatience. “Who do you think you are, making demands when we both know you’re a mere serf?” he hissed, doing his best to seem as unaffected as possible despite the hard beating of his heart and the growing need to turn on his heel and flee.

   The other boy frowned and looked uncertain for a short while. Then he seemed to shake himself. “I am no more a serf than you are, Draco; we are equals, and I have a right to know what’s going on with you—especially when it affects me.”

   Somehow, Draco found a sarcastic chortle for him. “Equals? Don’t make me laugh! You are only good to me when I need something from you, and you know it. And as it now stands, I do not need anything from you, so piss off!”

   This tactic should work—it had always worked on him before—but for some reason, Blaise was not intimidated. Instead, he started to advance on Draco, who reluctantly took a few steps backward to maintain the distance between them.

   “You won’t get away this time, Drake,” Blaise warned, literally pushing him into a corner; he felt his heart rising into his throat and clogging it up when his back hit a cabinet and he realised there was no escape for him. “Tell me what the Hell is going on, or I’ll _make_ you talk.”

   Mouth drying up and breath catching in fear, Draco shrank away from the black, demanding glare of his housemate. There was no getting away from this, yet he could not— _could not_ —acknowledge the truth; it would destroy him.

   When he still would not speak, Blaise sighed in disappointment. “Fine. You know I don’t want to do this, but you leave me no choice …”

   Squeezing his eyes shut, Draco expected fists to come flying, but instead the sound of a door opening and the familiar chatter of Granger’s little mongrel reached them. Blaise immediately backed up so as not to betray that there was something untoward happening.

   When Granger came further into the room, pushing the pram with the tiny, deceptively human-looking monster before her, she noticed them standing awkwardly in the back and came to a stop. Looking from one to the other, probably trying to assess the situation, she finally let her gaze rest on Draco. “Harry went down to the Dungeons looking for you,” she informed coldly.

   Only too happy to embrace any excuse to leave the art studio, Draco hurried off towards the door, and as he passed Granger, he whispered a genuine “Thank you.”

   He could feel her staring after him but did not dare to look back. In fact, he did not stop until he was safely back in the Slytherin common room with his DADA books open on his lap and several people flanking him on all sides.

   When Blaise showed up later and saw him surrounded, he just shook his head in anger and headed straight for the dorm.

   They studied late that evening, especially Potter; he was slowly beginning to grasp the basics of Alchemy and was utilising the combined knowledge of the Slytherins assembled around them by asking as many questions as he could think of. Miles seemed to enjoy explaining the many recipes, experiments, and procedures to him, ending up sitting next to Potter and causing Draco’s chest to boil with an unidentifiable feeling that was highly unpleasant.

   He did not like when the others got too close to the Gryffindor, almost as if they were staking a claim on a possession of his …

   When he went to the bathroom to prepare himself for the night, the raven-haired boy was still poring over his books, but when Draco returned to the common room, he had fallen asleep sprawled on the couch. His arm was hanging out over the edge, the Alchemy book dropped on the floor.

   Unsure of what to do, Draco remained standing by the couch, just looking down at the sleeping boy. He looked so peaceful … as if nothing in the world could trouble him. _Have I ever been that at ease?_ he wondered to himself.

   Despite definitely _not_ caring about Potter in the least, he grabbed a soft, warm blanket from a nearby armchair and carefully draped it over the raven-haired boy so he would not get cold.

   He knelt down and picked up the book from the floor; put it on the table with the rest of Potter’s things. Almost as a reflex, he leant in over the slumbering Gryffindor and tucked the blanket in snugly around his shoulders and under his chin.

   His fingers brushed against the smooth, warm skin of Potter’s jawline and made him stop short in shock. An electrifying shiver ran through his body. This close to the other boy, the pull that he felt towards him grew stronger and more demanding; it was making his body act on its own, slowly moving his own face closer to Potter’s.

   Their lips were only a fraction of an inch apart, and Draco could practically feel Harry’s soft mouth on his as clearly as he could feel the hot exhalations that caressed his skin. Closing his eyes, he let out a trembling breath and recklessly plunged into the tingling, exciting, fluttery feelings that were swirling around inside of him.

   “Hi, Draco. What are you doing?” Luna’s dreamy, inquisitive voice suddenly asked behind him and scared the living daylight out of him.

   Jumping up from the floor in a wild panic, he swiftly moved away from the sleeping boy. His heart was pounding painfully in his chest and he was dead scared that she would put two and two together and intuit just what he had been about to do.

   Luna’s eyes fell on Potter, and she brightened up visibly. “Oh, you gave him a blanket—that is so thoughtful of you, Draco!”

   He blinked at her, unable to comprehend how dim she could sometimes be.

   Without taking any notice of his bewilderment, she gave him a little wave and skipped back to the girls’ dormitories.

   Relieved, Draco quickly retreated to his own dorm before he did something he would regret later.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Friday morning, Harry woke up stiff and sore due to the weird position he had been sleeping in. Confused, he peered around at his surroundings, trying to place the weird greenish glow before realising that he must still be in the Slytherin Dungeon.

   _I must have fallen asleep_ , he thought, carefully sitting up to stretch out his groaning muscles.

   A whiff of cologne slithered into his nostrils.

   Lifting the blanket he was wrapped in up to his nose, the scent grew noticeably stronger. It was Malfoy’s cologne, alright; he would recognise it anywhere. Drawing a deep breath with his eyes closed in pleasure, he felt his pulse speeding up and his head becoming light and fuzzy.

   Had Malfoy put the blanket over him? Or did this particular blanket just happen to have been used by him recently, so it still held his scent?

   Deciding to find out, he made sure to lock eyes with the blonde as soon as he came out from the boys’ dormitories. Giving him a tentative smile, he indicated the blanket and said, “Thanks.”

   Malfoy started, then nervously looked away. His cheeks turned a lovely shade of pink. “Don’t mention it,” he muttered almost inaudibly before hurrying off to the showers.

   Feeling dangerously pleased— _He cares about me!_ —Harry carried himself with a new confidence as they walked into DADA shortly before 8:30. Somehow, things felt different, as if something significant had changed between them, so he was quite disappointed when it turned out to be a practical lesson. He had been looking forward to some more stealth touching.

   Professor Snape had them practicing the Patronus Charm, something that proved easier said than done to accomplish. Almost the entire double period passed before the first Patronus was conjured and most people did not manage to produce so much as a ray of blue light.

   Harry had a hard time pinpointing the right memory to use as a basis for the spell, but when he finally landed on the day that Angel had been born it all seemed so simple. A smile instantly came to his face when he recalled the moment he had first seen her little wrinkly face and got to hold her. A baby sister. He had never been happier than the day he became a big brother.

   Holding on to that memory—that feeling—he held out his wand and said, “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

   A wispy, striped Angelfish of blue light shot out of his wand and swam around the room, making his smile widen into a cocky grin.

   Looking around the room, he saw that only the top students had managed to create their own Patronuses, which made him feel even better about himself.

   Hermione was showing her incredibly cute tabby kitten Patronus to Oliver, who was giggling sweetly, and next to her, Cedric was petting a giant Irish wolfhound.

   On the Slytherin side of the room, Luna had conjured an Axolotl that perfectly suited her personality. Bletchley was flanked by a Doberman that looked as serious and indifferent as he himself was, and Goyle was scratching a cuddly-looking bear cub behind the ear.

   Next to him, Malfoy suddenly began to laugh and exclaimed: “Hey, look at this little fella!”

   A white ferret was playfully jumping around him and performing strange tricks, and it was turning the normally reserved and haughty blonde into a sniggering child. It was so endearing that Harry could not help but laugh with him.

   His heart seemed to be swelling with the sight, and the feeling remained with him all through the day until school was out and it was time to go to Quidditch practice. For the first time ever, he wished that time would pass in an instance so practice would be over already.

   Because he just wanted to get back to Slytherin and Malfoy.

 

 

* * *

 

 

As soon as Potter left for his Quidditch practice, Draco began to feel agitated; jittery. It was as if he could keep his distance to the Gryffindor only when he was actually present, which was both ridiculous and paradoxical. It was just so much easier to keep the façade up—and intact—when he could bully and boss the other boy around; when he was alone, there was no-one to perform his act for.

   He could sense that something was shifting inside of him—something that he was terrified of acknowledging—and if he allowed himself to cross that fine line that he was so precariously teetering on, there would be no turning back.

   Deep down, he knew exactly what was up, and he had a feeling that he would be forced to admit it to himself sooner or later. But as long as he still had a say in it, he would fight it off for as long as he could.

   The previous evening crept up on him and brought with it that intoxicating sensation of almost being lip-to-lip with Potter. Shuddering with trepidation, he tried to shake off the memory.

   Cold sweat was running down his back and forming a disgusting film on his forehead.

   “Hey, you all right there, mate?”

   Swirling around in fright, Draco found Blaise passing him by in the corridor, giving him a suspicious look.

   Could this be a sign? Just as he was gripped by doubt and insecurity, his old bed-mate showed up like rain on a day you wanted to get out of flying. Maybe all he needed was to once and for all prove to himself that he could get rid of his new, sick penchant for messy-haired Gryffindors.

   Acting on a whim, he asked Blaise to accompany him to the Room of Requirement, choosing not to see the other boy’s excitedly lit up expression. He was too far gone into his own mind.

   _I can get rid of it. I can force this bloody obsession out of my system once and for all; I just need to give this another shot_ , he told himself. _And if it doesn’t work … I’ll know._

   But it had to work. It just had to.

   He ordered Blaise to give him a blowjob, since he _loved_ blowjobs and had never been able to keep it in his pants when one had been offered him. It was the perfect act with which to test his feelings.

   Closing his eyes and leaning his head back in anticipation as he felt Blaise’s mouth close around his dick, he attempted to empty his mind so he could focus fully on the hot, wet mouth that tightened around him. On the tongue that massaged along the length of his shaft and playfully tickled the underside of his glans.

   Nothing happened.

   _Come on, come on, come on_ , he chanted quietly to himself, as if he could will his body to respond by mere wishful thinking.

   Still, his manhood would not rise to the occasion—would not even grow semi-hard even though Blaise was doing everything right—and for every second that ticked by, a successively increasing aching was pounding through his chest, as if there was a panicked bird inside his ribcage.

   He did not want this. It felt wrong, wrong, wrong …

   “Stop,” he whispered, but his voice was just a crisp croak and did not carry to the other boy’s ears.

   A sense of being trapped underwater convinced him that he could not breathe, and tiny black dots began to invade the edges of his vision.

   “Stop,” he repeated, a little louder this time, and he could feel the minute start that Blaise gave when he heard the plea. Yet, he kept on going with renewed determination. Panicking for real this time, Draco shrieked, “ _Stop!_ ”

   Gasping for breath, he sank down on the edge of the bed. It was as if all power had drained from him and he no longer could hold himself up. As the realisation of what this meant hit him, he finally understood that his anxiety attacks were not just a result of forcing himself to do things he did not really want to do.

   He was terrified. Terrified of what this signified.

   He wanted Potter—Potter and no-one else. After a lifetime of always being the one in control he was suddenly finding himself spinning so utterly _out_ of control that he hardly knew up from down anymore, and all because of one bloody person.

   He was losing control to Potter.

   “What the Hell is wrong with you these days?!” Blaise exclaimed, temporarily breaking him out of his mind prison. “D’you think you can just do whatever the Hell you want with me as if I’m some bloody toy?!”

   Draco cleared his clogged-up throat, and said, “This arrangement is over.”

   Apparently, Blaise had just been about to yell something else at him, because he opened his mouth and drew breath to fire off another volley, but the air went out of him when he registered the meaning of what Draco had said. “ _What?!_ ”

   “This arrangement between you and me,” he elaborated, “is null and void from this moment on. I don’t want this anymore.”

   Blaise looked as if he was on the verge of exploding. “You—what the—you ‘don’t want’ this anymore?! It doesn’t fucking matter if you’re the Golden Boy who gets whatever the fuck he wants, it doesn’t matter if you’re the Headmaster’s son—or even if you were the bloody _Minister_ ’s son!—you still can’t just go and make decisions for the rest of us! _I_ have just as much say in this!”

   Righteous anger was starting to replace the panic inside Draco. Rising to his full height again, he retaliated: “Don’t I have as much right as anyone else to say ‘no?’ Don’t I have as much right as anyone else to abstain from sex when I don’t fucking want to have sex? Don’t you understand that I can’t do this anymore? I mean, you _have_ noticed my repulsion lately, haven’t you?”

   “Oh, so now I _repulse_ you, do I?”

   “Yes! You do! So leave me the fuck alone, alright!?”

   The other boy did not seem to want to bugger off, though; his black eyes were wide with fury, and his contorted features made him look quite mad. Instead of respecting Draco’s wishes, he came at him with increased force, grabbing hold of him and trying to wrestle him down.

   Suddenly afraid for his life, Draco reflexively threw his arms up for protection. Too late, he realised that Blaise was not going in for the hit, but by then the other boy had already managed to push him back down onto the bed and pinned him under him.

   Fear rising like a cold, black tide inside of him, Draco also realised that his bottom half was alarmingly naked, leaving him the most vulnerable he had ever felt. Big, strong hands were holding him down, trying to turn him over onto his stomach, and he knew that he had to do something fast—or he would be raped. _Raped!_

   Thinking desperately, he searched for a way out of this nightmare scenario. His arms were locked down … Blaise was too far away from his face for him to bite him … What about his legs? Could he kick him? Wriggling under the robust frame of the physically more defined boy, he tried to free up one of his legs—and felt the distinctive, almost rubbery hardness of an erection pressing against his hip.

   Crying out in anguish, he collected all his energy and strength and pushed against Blaise until his right hand was partially freed. Ignoring the pain of stretching his hand out farther than it should be able to go under the pressed circumstances, he managed to snatch the handle of his wand between his middle and ring finger. After a few seconds of fumbling, he had pulled it out enough to get a firm grip on it.

   Pointing it at Blaise through the pocket, he shouted “ _Stupefy!_ ” just as that vile erection was sliding down the inside of his thigh.

   The blast of red light hit the other boy so hard it sent him flying backwards through the room; he slammed into the armchairs by the fireplace with an ear-splitting cacophony of _thump_ s and the screeching of wood against polished stone.

   Breathing swiftly and shallowly, Draco tumbled off the bed, retching violently.

   As soon as he had calmed himself down somewhat, he pulled on his pants and trousers and weakly stumbled off in the direction of the door.

   He never wanted to see that room again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Malfoy cancelled all activities that evening, claiming a migraine and declining Harry’s offer of fetching some remedies from Madam Pomfrey. Mollified, he could do nothing but retire to Gryffindor Tower with a disappointed slouch in his step.

   The blonde’s behaviour confused him. Up until he left for his Quidditch practice, there had seemed to be signs of him accepting Harry, if not outright warming up to him—and now he was cold, gruff, rejecting.

   He therefore ended up spending the evening with Hermione and Oliver, which was very pleasant and relaxing, and when they had gone to bed he snuck up to the Astronomy Tower with Cedric.

   It was so much simpler with him, and he made Harry feel appreciated.

   When Malfoy the following day announced that his service was needed for a party that evening, Harry at first felt childishly reluctant and would much rather just have snuck away somewhere with Cedric again. Mostly because the blonde was tetchy and sporting a much shorter fuse than usual. Nonetheless, he followed him down to the Slytherin Dungeon to set it up.

   It was beginning to dawn on Harry that Slytherins were no strangers to drink; everyone above the age of 13 seemed to have a greater toleration for alcohol than he had. Crabbe had once more pilfered several bottles of strong firewhiskey from his father’s stores and was not loath to share them with anyone who asked for a glass. He even surprised Harry by offering him some in an effortless, matey manner, but he graciously declined.

   Malfoy, on the other hand, was drinking rather heavily all evening, and Harry suspected that that was uncharacteristic of him. He had always seemed like the kind of person who never relinquished control, yet now he was downing goblet after goblet of firewhiskey and behaving very … strangely.

   “Do you lot have a party every weekend?” he wondered, warily glancing around the room at Slytherins in various stages of inebriation.

   Unlike the last time he had acted as a serving man, three weeks previously, he was now allowed to sit among them as long as nobody needed anything. Some of them even seemed to be accepting him into their midst, Bletchley and Goyle being the ones warming up to him the most.

   It was no great surprise that the girls were proving most vehemently reluctant to accept his presence, though; they kept mocking him at every opportunity.

   “No …,” Malfoy, who was already quite pissed, slowly answered Harry’s question, but then he scrunched up his face in concentration as if he was trying to think hard. “… maybe?”

   “As long as there is Ye Crabbe Firewhiskey, the party will go on!” Bletchley declared, and raised his goblet in a toast.

   Soon, Malfoy was staggering around the room with a bottle in each hand, singing colourful but questionable drinking songs, looking blissfully happy and positively plastered. When it became clear that he could hardly stand on his own two feet anymore, Harry decided it was time to step in.

   “Okay, okay, that’s it—we’re getting you to bed now,” he said, and took a careful but firm grip of the much taller blonde. It was a job and a half keeping him upright enough to walk all the way to his room, but if he did not do it chances were that Malfoy would wind up in a pool of his own sick sooner rather than later.

   Malfoy kept up a steady, slurred chatter that consisted chiefly of incoherent nonsense. The closer they got to the dorm, the limper he became in Harry’s arms. He was therefore relieved when they finally reached the bed.

   As he was just about to lower his live burden onto the mattress, Malfoy had a sudden spurt of energy and jumped up onto the bed.

   “Hey! Sit down!” he exclaimed, afraid that the bouncing boy would fall and hurt himself.

   Instead of heeding Harry’s order, Malfoy started to make impressively elaborate arm gestures and stated: “I’mmm a great magishan, just like my godfazzer, and I will purrform an excloosive trick for you, Pottah!”

   Harry hurried up to the side of the bed and tried to grab hold of him. “Just come down from there before you hurt yourself!”

   Either the blonde was not listening or he was so drunk that nothing could penetrate his thick skull anymore, because he ignored the raven-haired boy’s plea and continued: “I will make my dick dizappear! Are you ready to be dazzled?!”

   Harry started to object, but the blonde simply proceeded to pull down his trousers and pants in one fell swoop and, even as Harry was telling him to stop his nonsense, took a good hold of his own member and stuffed it into Harry’s mouth. Throwing his arms up in a gesture of success, he then cried, “Ta-daaa! All gone!”

   And in the next moment, he passed out from the drink and fell back against the pillows, fast asleep.

   For a long time, Harry just stood there in utter shock, able to neither process nor comprehend what had just happened. Only the slightly salty taste in his mouth betrayed that anything had happened at all; it had all been over in an instant.

   Malfoy’s dick had just been in his mouth.

   _In his mouth!_

   Innocent and inexperienced as he was, Harry had no idea how he was supposed to feel about that. But he supposed it had not been unpleasant …

   Once the shock had lifted, he cast a simple spell that fully dressed the blonde again so things would not be even more awkward than they already needed to be in the morning. Then he went out and fetched a chair for himself.

   When the blonde woke up the next morning, Harry was sitting patiently by his bedside and could pinpoint the exact moment in which his sluggish brain registered his presence. The beautiful, silvery eyes widened slightly in surprise. “Potter …,” he croaked wonderingly. Then he groaned miserably and put a hand to his head. “Merlin, what the Hell did I do to myself last night?!”

   Harry instantly rose from his chair and placed a chilled towel on the blonde’s forehead. “Good morning,” he murmured indifferently, but on the inside he thanked his lucky star that the other boy did not seem to remember his little ‘trick.’

   Malfoy frowned up at him. “You’re still here …”

   “Obviously.”

   When the blonde began to gag, he swiftly grabbed a bucket that he had put on the floor next to the bed and placed it under his chin. Although it felt awkward and bordering on inappropriate, he sat down on the bed next to him and slowly, comfortingly stroked Malfoy’s back while he was sick, just like his mother had always done when he was little.

   Once everything had been disgorged, Malfoy collapsed onto the pillows again. His face was damp with cold sweat, so Harry soaked another towel in hot water, wrung it out and carefully blotted the other boy’s face with it.

   Malfoy glared up at him with wariness in his grey eyes. “Why are you being so kind to me?”

   Harry shrugged. “I just figured you’d be feeling pretty sick after everything you drank last night and thought I’d better stick around, seeing as none of your mates were in any state to help,” he said, keeping his tone as emotionless as possible. He did not want to give the blonde the wrong idea.

   “Are you a masochist?” Malfoy wondered, staring at him with a mixture of bafflement and revulsion. “Who in their right mind would willingly sit on sick watch?”

   That was indeed a good question. Harry did not know what to say to that, because there seemed to be no simple answer. He should not feel obligated to help the blonde, yet he had stayed out of concern for him, without giving it a second thought.

   “Why do you care, anyway?” Malfoy went on.

   Choosing to be diplomatic about it, Harry simply said, “I’m your servant. It’s my duty to assist you, right?”

   That earned him a sarcastic chuckle from the blonde. “Boy, you really are a poof, aren’t you?”

   Harry, who was just dipping another towel into a basin of cold water, stopped in the middle of a movement and silently wondered what the best route to take would be. After a moment’s hesitation, he came to the conclusion that he did not want to half-heartedly joke it away anymore, or try to deflect from the truth. He just did not have the energy for it.

   “So what if I am?” he therefore asked, pointedly taking up his task anew without looking at the blonde.

   Now it was Malfoy’s turn to be silent for a while, seemingly mulling over Harry’s words. Finally, he said, “I guess that would be all right with me.”

   Whatever he had expected Malfoy to say, this was so far from it that he did not know how to react. _I guess that would be all right with me._ Was he saying that it did not matter to him if Harry was gay—that his view of him would remain the same?

   _I guess that would be all right with me._

   Somehow, that particular phrasing sounded like a blessing of sorts. As if Malfoy was _allowing him_ to be gay, bestowing a great gift on him.

   In any case, it strangely warmed his heart to know that the Slytherin accepted him for what he was. It was a huge weight lifted off his chest to finally come clean to someone, even if that someone happened to be his archenemy.

   But even as that thought struck him, he glanced down at the knackered blonde and felt a faint flutter in the region of his heart.

   No, not his enemy anymore.

   Not ever again.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The light seemed all too bright when he opened his eyes, as if the sun itself had decided to take the piss out of him. Squinting out at the room, he tried to pinpoint where the curtains were so he could pull them shut and retreat from the world until this bloody headache disappeared.

   Then his gaze fell upon a tousled, black bush of hair and two intensely green eyes that were looking back at him worriedly. The sight took him aback, and it was a few seconds before he actually found his voice. “Potter …”

   He was right there, sitting at Draco’s bedside as if it was the most natural thing in the world … But that worried wrinkle between his brows did not make sense; why would he be concerned about him? It was not as if he had been drinking acid or anything …

   As if his stomach had heard his thoughts and grasped their meaning, it started to churn and bubble while his head commenced its incessant pounding at ten times the volume. Groaning pitifully, he put a hand to his scalp in an attempt to keep it from imploding on him. “Merlin, what the Hell did I do to myself last night?!”

   The raven-haired boy rose at the sound of his voice, and a moment later Draco started as something wet and cold was placed on his forehead.

   “Good morning,” Potter mumbled, sounding nervous somehow. It was hard to place, but there seemed to be a disconnect between his tone and his facial expression; he looked relieved, but he sounded … on his toes.

   Draco frowned, vainly trying to piece things together. “You’re still here …”

   Why was he still there?

   “Obviously,” was the only reply he was given, which did not really clear much up, to be honest.

   He tried to ask Potter about it, but his nausea spiked and forced him to bend over. _Oh God, no, I’m gonna hurl all over him!_ he thought in horror, but the Gryffindor proved to be as quick on his feet as he was on his broom. Before Draco knew it, a bucket had been placed before him. In the nick of time, too, because a fraction of a second later his stomach muscles contracted violently to expel the toxic remains of his reckless firewhiskey binge.

   Too bad the memory of Blaise almost raping him could not be expelled with them.

   For some inexplicable reason, the Gryffindor sat down next to him and softly caressed his back to ease his discomfort. It was a completely new experience to him, and it felt odd, soothing and incredibly good, all at once.

   When there was nothing left to throw up, he weakly sank back onto his luxurious pillows, altogether spent. Even that short digestive malfunction had him breaking out in a sweat.

   Without saying anything or dropping a single acid comment about Draco’s disgusting heaving, Potter used a soft and warm towel to blot his face. It felt really nice, yet he could not quite allow himself to believe that there was no ulterior motive behind it all. “Why are you being so kind to me?” he therefore demanded sharply.

   No-one was ever kind to anyone else without ultimately asking for something in return, so when Potter claimed to be doing it simply because none of his friends had been sober enough to, alarm bells went off in Draco’s mind. The words were hollow, meaningless; there was something else underlying this _very_ transparent reason and the bloody Gryffindor would not give him a straight answer!

   Resorting to good old mockery, Draco spat out: “Why do you care, anyway?”

   Now there was definitely a façade coming on. Shoulders stiffening visibly, Potter said, “I’m your servant. It’s my duty to assist you, right?”

   Draco could not help but chuckle sarcastically at that. _Oh, please._ Shaking his head at the raven-haired boy, he muttered, “Boy, you really are a poof, aren’t you?” It was just such a nancy thing to do, acting all important and selfless like that …

   Belatedly, he noticed that Potter had grown unnaturally still in his seat. He looked as if he was teetering on the edge of a cliff, uncertain of whether he should take the plunge or not. That proved to be a fitting metaphor when he finally opened his mouth and replied: “So what if I am?”

   Draco flinched involuntarily. What … what had he just said?

   Those five words had been uttered with a clear note of challenge, as if the raven-haired boy was daring him to question him. And if he felt a need to challenge Draco … then that short statement must be an admission—right?

   Had Harry Potter just come out to him?

   To _him_ of all people?!

   Because if he truly was a poof, he could not have told anyone else about it or it would have been all over the school. News like that spread fast since the girls always seemed to mourn when a good-looking bloke came out as gay.

   He mulled over this new fact and considered the impact it would have on him. The obvious pro was that the object of his reluctant fancy was at least playing for the right team, but at the same time that also meant additional difficulties for him since he still was not ready to act on his feelings. He had hardly even admitted to them yet. Having Potter’s orientation out in the open would seriously complicate things.

   Yet, he found himself saying, “I guess that would be all right with me.”

   He felt as surprised as Potter looked at those words.

   What the Hell did he mean by that?

   It was still nagging on him the following night when they ventured into the Forbidden Forest to pick fluxweed for their Polyjuice Potion. Since the fluxweed needed to be picked on a full moon night in order to have the correct properties, this was the only chance they had to collect some lest they receive Trolls for a potion well failed.

   Negotiating the forest under the full moon was something one did against better judgment, but as a true Slytherin he would do anything to achieve his goals. Which was why he had not allowed for a stall in their Muggle Sports practice and they only ventured into the woods well past eleven. He dared to hazard a guess that the other partner pairs in their class had already come and gone, staying on the safe side of midnight.

   Well, if everything went well, they would be out of the forest before the clock struck twelve.

   Next to him, Potter kept tripping over rocks and roots in the darkness, cursing quietly to himself.

   After the umpteenth ‘Bollocks!’ came flying in his direction, Draco rolled his eyes theatrically. “Will you watch your step already? Every creature in this godforsaken forest is going to flock here just to shut you up, at this rate,” he complained.

   He could sense the dirty look Potter threw him. “I am perfectly capable of looking where I’m going, thank you very much,” he muttered, but his statement was kind of rendered moot when he almost immediately walked into a tree stump and fell over. He quickly shot back up and brushed himself off in a very dignified manner. “It’s dark, alright?” he defended himself with.

   Draco snorted disdainfully. “Yeah, well, we can’t exactly use torches, can we? God knows what we’d attract …”

   “God? Malfoy, you _do_ know that there is no god, right?”

   “Of course I know that!” he hissed, ire making his blood boil. “I am not stupid, you know.”

   The Gryffindor was silent for a few seconds, then he grumbled: “Just checking.”

   They soon reached the clearing where the fluxweed grew, and Draco was temporarily struck mute at the sight of the thousands of creamy-yellow flowers that were bobbing in the breeze and lent a milky glow by the moon. His artist’s eye appreciated the beauty in nature, and he took pains to commit moments like this to memory so that he could paint them at a later time.

   He actually felt a bit offended when Potter just strode right in, trampling a multitude of flowers in his wake, and ruthlessly yanked up a handful of plants by the roots. Holding them up like they were some sort of prize, he fired off an accomplished grin at Draco. “See, easy-peasy.”

   Shaking his head in resignation, he merely said, “No tact whatsoever.”

   Potter’s grin turned into a confused question mark. “Wha’?”

   “Never mind. Let’s just leave.”

   He turned and started back the way they had come, but stopped after only a few steps when a muted _Oof!_ followed by a loud _thud_ and the rustle of plants and leaves being disturbed reached him from behind. Tired of the other boy’s messing around, he sighed and began to turn back with a stinging jibe ready on the tip of his tongue—

   —and an icy scream had him pulling out his wand while simultaneously adopting a low defensive stance. Swirling around, he swiftly assessed his surroundings.

   Potter was lying on the ground—half on his back, half on his right side—with a vicious-looking beast on top of him, desperately trying to keep its razor-sharp teeth off his exposed neck.

   Suddenly, everything seemed to slow down and speed up all at once; it was as if he was watching the scene play out in slow motion before him while, at the same time, it only took the blink of an eye for him to register that the creature had all the tell-tale characteristics of a werewolf and that it seemed to have reduced Potter’s cloak to a jumble of shreds from one second to the next.

   The self-preservation enthusiast in him screamed for him to run—turn around and _fucking run_! There was nothing more precious than life, and without it he could not achieve anything else ever again. If he died here, tonight, his name would be forgotten in a matter of years, decades at most, for he would have left no grand deeds or accomplishments behind that would keep him alive in people’s minds.

   And being forgotten was his greatest fear.

   It may be considered cowardly by some, but preserving one’s own life was the greatest gift one could give oneself. After all, everyone had their own family and friends depending on them to stay alive so they would not have to suffer through the pain of losing you.

   _But it had Potter._ He had only just begun to grasp the significance of that aggravating, snotty, ill-tempered mop-head, and he was not quite prepared to have the so recently opened door shut in his face already.

   Acting on pure instinct, he swung his wand around and shouted: “ _Expecto Patronum!_ ”

   The white ferret shot out of his wand like a bolt of horizontal lightning and went straight for the werewolf, scuttling over the beast’s body with nauseating speed and agility. It climbed around the creature, distracting it from its prey. When it shifted its focus from Potter to the light ferret as it tried to brush the bothersome pest off, Draco called out to the Gryffindor: “Come on! Run!”

   Luckily, Potter did not need to be told twice; he scrambled off the ground and hurried towards the blonde, his cloak in tatters around his shoulders, and they made their escape without looking back.

   Once they were safely out of the forest and halfway across the grounds to the castle, they allowed themselves a breather and dropped down on the grass, gasping for air after their desperate sprint.

   After a while, Draco noticed that Potter was watching him with a new respect shining in his stunning emerald eyes. “You saved my life,” he murmured, apparently baffled.

   Draco jerked involuntarily. Merlin’s beard … he actually had. Blushing uncomfortably, he turned his face away. “Don’t let it get to your head, Potter; I was merely acting on a foolish impulse. You’d do well not to let me regret it.”

   He did not want Potter to think that he had done it because he wanted to, or because he did not want him to die or something. Because that would be ludicrous. Right?

   Somehow, he could not quite convince himself of that.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Malfoy was making it quite clear that he had only saved Harry’s life to keep his servant so he would not have to go back to doing all the boring work himself again. That was all fine; he did not need the blonde, anyway. He demonstratively sat down next to Cedric during the classes they had together just to annoy the Slytherin.

   He felt a dark satisfaction when his ‘master’ glared daggers at him across the room.

   “It’s really nice to have you back where you belong,” Cedric quipped next to him, secretly giving his thigh a squeeze under the table and making his cheeks flush crimson.

   Clearing his throat nervously, he managed a slightly husky reply: “It’s good to be back, too.”

   A brilliant smile was awarded him at that, and he felt his heart thumping uncomfortably in his chest. Worried that people would notice, he peered around them, but all he saw was people intently taking notes, Hermione placating Oliver with a tangerine—and, of course, Malfoy’s death stares.

   Cedric reeled his attention back in when he briefly put his hand over Harry’s before grabbing the ink bottle that stood between them on the table. “Let’s stay back after Astronomy tonight,” he whispered, and his suggestive tone sent a pleasant shiver down Harry’s spine.

   Since he had agreed to go out with Cedric, the taller boy had become increasingly bolder, taking every chance to get Harry alone. It was a bit overwhelming at times; he seemed so much more experienced and confident. Sometimes it scared Harry, because he had a feeling that he would soon reach a point where he could no longer give his friend what he wanted.

   And he guessed that still thinking of him as his ‘friend’ was the first offense.

   “I have—” A tiny gasp escaped him when Cedric once more caressed his leg under the table. Swallowing hard, he forced himself to continue: “I have things to take care of tonight, I don’t know if I can …”

   But that teasing, immodest grin was hard to say no to, and it accompanied him all day long, even making itself reminded while he was sitting in the Quidditch stands with Bowie playing on his MP3-player as the Slytherin team swished by on their racing brooms. So when Astronomy came and went, he found it impossible to deny Cedric some time alone with him in the dark corners of the tower.

   With their arms entwined and their lips touching, Harry felt a pleasant physical response that made him hopeful for the future. Even the brush of skin against skin as Cedric played with his hand gave birth to a warmth that spread through his entire body and gave him a sense of harmony, of being wanted. It was nice to feel appreciated for who he was; as if just being Harry was enough to satisfy the other boy.

   Snogging was still more mechanical for him than anything else, though. It was all right, he guessed, but not exactly something he sought, himself. It was somewhat strange—all wet and messy and clumsy. At least, that’s what he experienced on his end; Cedric, on the other hand, seemed to think it was brilliant.

   When he finally managed to slip away to meet Malfoy down on the Quidditch pitch, he was at peace. Unfortunately, it did not last long; the blonde was evidently pissed off for having been made to wait for him. He could understand that, of course, and was sensible enough to apologise as soon as he reached him.

   “A bit late for apologies, don’t you think?” Malfoy countered, not giving an inch. “Where the bloody Hell have you been?! I’ve been here since nine, which is supposed to be when your class ends, and you have the nerve to leave me standing here in this bloody wind _for fifty fucking minutes_ and freeze my bollocks off!”

   Harry felt a bit mollified at that. “Sorry, I didn’t realise it was that long … Something came up, and I had to—”

   “‘Something came up,’ is it? I see. Another one of your harlot ‘friends’ hogging your time? Because you clearly seem to think their needs win out over mine.”

   Triggered by the blonde once again referring to his friends in derogatory and degrading terms, Harry fisted his hands at his sides and stepped right up into his personal space. “You don’t get to call them that,” he warned between gritted teeth.

   Malfoy instantly rose to the challenge and towered over him, trying to intimidate him. “I can call whomever I want whatever I want, especially those little tarts you run with,” he growled straight into Harry’s face. “Ought to be returned to working the streets, the lot of them.”

   Harry was the one to throw the first punch, but the blonde quickly retaliated. His height advantage coupled with feline agility and reflexes soon had Harry on the defensive rather than the offensive. In an attempt to back up and gain some leeway, he stumbled on something and ended up taking them both down instead.

   Winding up under the stronger and dangerously furious blonde, Harry was at a clear disadvantage and could not do much more than throw up his arms to deflect the blows Malfoy was trying to land.

   Frustrated, the blonde finally roared: “Stop—fucking—flailing!”

   Feeling his luck running out, Harry kicked out at the blonde’s left leg. Since he was straddling Harry, he lost his balance when he suddenly found himself with fifty percent less support and was sent tumbling down on top of the Gryffindor. Their foreheads smacked into each other in an impromptu head-butt.

   Malfoy groaned in pain and slowly lifted a hand to carefully rub at his forehead. He seemed dazed by the hit, because he no longer exhibited any interest in punching Harry.

   Becoming acutely aware of the blonde being right in his face, with his body pressed up against him and his lips mere inches away from the raven-haired boy’s own, Harry’s breath caught only to be released in strained, tremulous puffs. When he managed to inhale again, the heady scent of Malfoy’s masculine musk and that ridiculously seductive cologne filled his nostrils and made his entire body come alive with an aching need to be joined with him.

   Everything else faded out of existence; there was only that wonderful smell, the weight of Malfoy’s body on top of him, and the soft curve of those lips. He could not stop staring at them, as if they had him completely mesmerised, and eventually he simply could not resist their allure anymore.

   Throwing caution to the wind, he lifted his head off the ground in one swift motion and pressed his lips to the blonde’s. A rush of exhilaration and a million fluttering butterflies roused and electrified him at the touch. It was like nothing he had ever experienced before, and when the still-shocked blonde did not shoot away from him in fright, he took that as a good sign and kissed him again.

   Slowly, tentatively, Malfoy began to respond; a slight pouting of the lips; a shifting of the hand from his smarting forehead to the side of Harry’s face. Elated at this tiny acknowledgement, Harry put his arms around the blonde’s neck and opened his mouth, inviting the other boy to deepen the kiss if that was desired.

   An excited moan escaped him when Malfoy followed suit and experimentally pushed his tongue inside his mouth, slowly and sensuously letting the tip slide alongside Harry’s own tongue.

   As if that intimate touch set off a bomb that had been ticking inside of them, they desperately clung to each other, Harry forcing the blonde’s face closer to his while Malfoy ran his fingers through Harry’s messy hair. As if they both needed something concrete to anchor them in reality while they snogged as if their lives depended on it.

   When Malfoy let his other hand slide down Harry’s face, with soft fingertips caressing his flushed cheek, Harry’s heart skipped a beat in happiness. He tightened his grip on the blonde’s neck with one hand while simultaneously moving the other down his arched back, coming to rest in the cavity right above his buttocks.

   Malfoy grunted his approval and pressed his crotch into Harry’s upper thigh. His unmistakable hardness excited Harry in the strangest way; he had never felt arousal at such a powerful degree before, nor had he ever experienced someone else’s uninhibited lust. It made him light-headed.

   Then, in a second, everything shifted and took a dark turn.

   It started with a stiffening in the blonde’s muscles—a glint in his silver eyes—and suddenly he was pushing away from Harry in shock. All colour drained from his face as he stared down at him with a mixture of disgust and fright taking possession of his features.

   Frowning in confusion, Harry began to ask him what was wrong when fear turned to anger and the blonde began to shout at him.

   “Keep your filthy woofter hands off me! What do you think you’re doing, taking advantage of my injury to get off?!” He scrambled up on his feet with some effort. “Stay away from me! I never want to see your face again—you hear me!?”

   And with those words, he stalked off, leaving Harry with the sensation of something breaking apart inside his chest. It was impossible to breathe; he just could not get any air. The best he had ever felt had swiftly turned into the worst he had ever felt.

   Somehow, he made it back to Gryffindor Tower despite shaking violently and feeling so weak he could hardly stand on his own two legs. When he entered through the portrait hole, he was barely keeping himself together anymore; he was hyperventilating loudly, each desperate intake of breath sounding closer and closer to a wretched sob.

   He barely noticed his friends but was sure that they immediately noticed _him_ and surmised that something was gravely wrong. In the corner of his eye, he saw Hermione shoot up from her seat and come straight for him. Even as he felt her arm curl around the small of his back to support him, he heard her ask the others to mind Oliver for her.

   She led him into a side room and magically locked the door behind them. As soon as the room had been safely muffled, Harry broke apart. Hacking sobs wracked him, so powerful that his legs gave out and he fell down onto the hard stone floor, curling up into the foetal position. Hugging himself, he cried so wretchedly and so violently that his small frame shook and the sobs were lent an eerie vibrato.

   He could feel Hermione’s arms around him, could hear her voice trying to soothe him, but he just could not stop crying. All through the night, she sat there holding him, asking him what was wrong, but he was as unable to talk as he was unable to stop crying. He did not even understand himself why he was so distressed.

   He did not understand.


	9. Give Me Mouth-to-Mouth and Make Amends

 

As soon as he walked in the door, it was obvious that something was gravely wrong. An evening of pleasant conversation, friendly banter, and laughter between mates came to an abrupt end when their eyes fell on the dishevelled form of Harry.

   The common room grew quiet in an instant; the only sounds were the strained, sob-like breaths caused by Harry’s violent hyperventilation.

   Seeing him like that—coming apart before their very eyes—had Cedric’s blood running cold through his veins. The way he was shaking uncontrollably, staggering as though barely able to stay on his feet, and altogether fighting to keep himself together …

   It scared Cedric to the core.

   Waiting in the common room while Hermione took Harry to another room for privacy was the hardest thing he had ever done; all he wanted was to be there for him, to comfort him—to soothe him, if possible. Not being able to help was making him agitated, and mere worry soon evolved into anxiety.

   When he no longer had the patience to sit still and do nothing, he began to pace the common room, weaving back and forth between the furniture. Not knowing what was going on or what had happened to Harry was driving him mad. Had there been a death in the family? Did Harry need him now? And could he really console him without risking the exposure of their relationship?

   He knew that the other boy was not ready to come out yet, and violating his trust was the last thing Cedric wanted to do.

   “Mate, calm down,” Dean was saying, obviously feeling nervous with him walking to and fro like that. “Hermione’s with him; there’s no-one better at taking care of others than Hermione.”

   The roommate nodded towards Oliver, who was currently gnawing on a toy wand in Ginny’s lap.

   Cedric knew that he was right but still ignored him; his heart, pounding with concern for Harry, would not let him rest.

   Had someone done this to him? The mere thought of someone hurting Harry to such a degree made his blood boil with righteous anger. A part of him hoped he would never find out who it was, because he could not guarantee that person’s safety. He had never been a violent person, but in this case, he would not hold back.

   They stayed in that room for hours. When they finally re-emerged, almost everyone else had gone to bed, amongst them Dean and Ginny, who had silently agreed to mind Oliver overnight and had taken him back to Ginny’s room.

   Harry looked awful. It was evident that he had been crying violently, possibly for hours, and he was only able to walk thanks to Hermione holding him up and directing him towards the staircase to the dormitories. When Cedric met her gaze, wordlessly asking for a status report, she merely shook her head. He assumed that meant she had either been unable to get anything out of him or that there had been no comforting him—perhaps both.

   He assisted her by putting Harry’s other arm around his neck; together, they steered Harry to their dorm room and carefully helped him into bed. The raven-haired boy immediately curled into a ball under the duvet and seemed to retreat into himself. He looked so small that Cedric just wanted to hug him until all the pain dissipated.

   Before she left for her own dorm, Hermione filled him and Neville in on what had transpired in the other room. With Dean spending the night with Ginny and Ron off pursuing new prey, it would just be the three of them tonight.

   “I have no idea what has got him this upset—he wouldn’t say anything,” she whispered to them, in case Harry would hear. “He just lay there on the floor, crying … I have never seen him like that before. There was no consoling him. I’m honestly scared for him, so if you could keep an eye on him tonight—”

   “Don’t worry, we’ll look after him,” Cedric promised at once, and Neville nodded silently at his side.

   Appeased, Hermione left them to it.

   It soon became apparent that Harry was in an apathetic state that bordered on catatonia; he would not reply or look at Cedric or offer any other sign of being aware of his surroundings. Still, Cedric could not help but try to reach him. “Harry? Do you need anything?” he wondered softly.

   But the raven-haired boy just lay there, staring off into space.

   Restless with worry, Cedric wanted nothing but to climb into bed with him and take him in his arms, but with Neville in the room with them he did not dare to. So he remained on the edge of his own bed, looking at his anguished boyfriend in indecision.

   “It’s all right, mate,” Neville suddenly said from his four-poster by the door, “I understand. You can be with him; I won’t tell anyone.”

   Realising that Neville somehow already knew about him and Harry, Cedric nodded to him gratefully. Wasting no time, he hurried over to Harry’s bedside and carefully put a hand on his shoulder. “Harry? Would you like me to hold you?” he asked soothingly.

   Everything was utterly still for what felt like an eternity, then the other boy nodded almost imperceptibly.

   Cedric slid down behind him and embraced him, holding his small body close and tenderly kissing his shoulder. Hopefully, he could convey that despite whatever had happened, everything would be fine.

   They lay like that in silence, Harry desperately clutching Cedric’s hand with his. Now and then, his slender frame jerked spasmodically in Cedric’s arms.

   “It’s all right,” he whispered next to his ear, and tightened his grip on the other boy somewhat. “I’m here. I’ll always be here,” he promised, placing another loving kiss on his nape.

   A shuddering intake of breath followed by a quiet sob betrayed that Harry was crying again, and Cedric felt a stab of pain in his chest. What should he do? What _could_ he do to help him?

   He held him all through the night.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Potter was not in school. He never came to pick Draco up that morning, initially leaving the blonde a furious storm cloud ready to shoot lethal bolts of lightning at the inconsiderate Gryffindor as soon as he saw him. The nerve of him!

   But he never showed up for Herbology. In over six years of school, Potter had never missed a single lesson unless there had been a valid reason for it, like a Quidditch injury or Scrofungulus. It confused the blonde and effectively doused his inner fire.

   Maybe he had overslept?

   It felt weird to dig through his own bag for the tools he needed after having had someone else doing it for him for so long, not to mention having to water and shear and prune, himself. Twice, he even turned to his right out of habit and said “Potter—” before realising that the Gryffindor was not there. That not only disconcerted him but exposed him to ridicule by his peers.

   “Where’s Potter?” Miles asked halfway into the lesson and seemed to genuinely miss the messy-haired klutz.

   “Did he go back to having his classes with Gryffindor?” Crabbe put in before Draco even had a chance to answer the first question.

   At that speculation, Goyle let out a simultaneously surprised and horrified groan, as if Potter returning to his own house was the worst scenario he could imagine.

   Draco was honestly baffled by his housemates’ disappointment and chagrin. Had they actually grown to _like_ Potter? Or did they simply like having him around for practical reasons, like Draco did? In any case, the atmosphere was perceptibly downcast that morning.

   A certain Ravenclaw was smirking at them from across the flowerbeds they were currently working on. “What? You upset about having to actually do something yourselves for once?” he taunted, evidently pleased with himself.

   “Shut up, McGonagall!” Draco warned waspishly.

   If Professor Longbottom had not at that moment been walking down their aisle to check their progress, he would have jinxed the smug twat.

   As soon as the lesson ended, Draco hurriedly packed up and headed out. There was an odd, unidentifiable feeling slowly growing inside him, and there was also an unexpected hope that he would find Potter waiting for him outside Professor Lovegood’s classroom. He could practically see the apologetic little lopsided smile and the embarrassed, flickering green eyes before him when he rounded the corner in the sixth-floor corridor—

   —and found that the person greeting him was not the raven-haired Gryffindor but Blaise, finally resurfaced after the powerful Stunner Draco had defended himself with.

   There was a note of remorse in his voice when he began: “Drake, I’m so sorry—”

   Feeling the hackles rising on the back of his neck and a cold fury flooding his veins, Draco went straight up to him and spoke in a threatening, affected voice, not giving a fuck if others could hear every word he uttered. “You do not speak to me. You do not associate with me in any way ever again. You are switching rooms with Crabbe and you are hereby cut from the Quidditch team. You are dead to me.”

   He felt a tide of forbidden emotions rising within him—humiliation, fear, degradation, shame—and he knew he had to get away from his former mate fast, before everything came crashing down on him and his reputation would be tarnished beyond repair.

   Making to pass Blaise into the classroom, he did his best to stay out of his range, but the dark-skinned boy still managed to grab onto his sleeve. “Draco, wait!”

   Draco reflexively fought to get free of his filthy hand. “Let go of me!” he exclaimed, both indignant and flustered.

   Lavender Brown and Zacharias Smith, who had just arrived and was making their way into the classroom, looked at them suspiciously, but Draco could not find it in himself to care; he just wanted to get away from there.

   “You can’t drop me from the team!” Blaise insisted angrily.

   “Oh, can’t I?” Draco retorted, teetering dangerously on the edge of madness. “You know what you did,” he accused violently, his voice nearly cracking on the last word and his eyes burning alarmingly. But even though he was an emotional mess at the moment, he still felt a measure of vicious satisfaction when the other boy jerked and let go of his arm in shock. “That’s right. Think very carefully before you decide to step out of line again, or I will not take responsibility for what I might do.”

   Miles gave him a strangely apprehensive look when he sat down next to him. It was clear that the friend wanted to ask him what was going on, so Draco was grateful when he stayed quiet out of consideration.

   Potter still being absent affected him more strongly than he would have thought possible. He really could have used his company right about then, what with the upsetting confrontation with Blaise and the emotional turmoil inside of him. Why was he not there? What could possibly be more important than tending to Draco? Especially after that kiss …

   _No!_ he berated himself in his thoughts. _Do_ not _go_ there _now!_

   Oh God, everything was so confusing right now …

   Decorum dictated that he dismiss the whole thing and show the world an indifferent front, but after Study of Ancient Runes ended he decided, _To Hell with decorum_ , and sought out Longbottom before Potions.

    “Where’s Potter?” he asked bluntly.

   Longbottom nervously looked away from his intense, steely gaze and stuttered, “I-I don’t know.”

   Draco narrowed his eyes at the obviously scared Gryffindor. “You’re lying. You should know that I don’t take kindly to people lying to me, Longbottom,” he snarled.

   Despite the other boy’s fear of him, he would not tell Draco what he wanted to know. Instead, he proved that even the meekest Gryffindor possessed the courage that was representative of that house. Meeting Draco’s gaze head on, he proclaimed: “I-if Harry wanted to t-talk to you, he would.”

   Starting as if he had just been slapped in the face, Draco pulled away from him. _If …_ Was he implying that Harry did not want to talk to him?

   “Leave him alone!” a feisty female voice demanded next to him, and when he turned around he found Granger standing there with her hands defiantly placed on her hips and a challenging expression on her face.

   Not exactly sure what was supposed to be intimidating about a five-foot-five teen mum who was probably 25% frizzy hair, Draco merely stared at her in puzzlement.

   “He has done nothing to you!” she continued, her brown eyes burning dangerously.

   “Calm down, Granger, I was only asking him where Potter is,” he said, shaking his head at her in resignation. _Women …_

   For some reason, that statement seemed to stoke her ire further. When he turned to head off to the Dungeons, she grabbed onto his school robes and forced him to stop. He opened his mouth to bite her head off, but something in her expression made him hesitate.

   “I don’t know what you did to him,” she said, her voice cold and betraying an immense protective instinct that dared him to test her, “but I know it was you. If you ever hurt him again, in _any_ way, you will have to answer to me, and believe me when I say you don’t want that.”

   With those words, she spun on her heel and began to push off down the corridor with her son whooping in the pushchair, leaving him to his confusion. _Did to whom?_ he wanted to ask but did not dare to provoke her any further. ‘Never tickle a sleeping dragon,’ and all that.

   Draco had to add the fluxweed and begin the actual brewing of the Polyjuice Potion on his own, because Potter naturally did not show up for Potions, either. He felt uncomfortable about working without a partner. People seemed to be staring at him, especially the Gryffindors; he could feel their eyes glaring daggers at him even when his back was turned.

   They also seemed to be whispering about him. Disconcerted, he wondered what was going on. What did they know that he did not?  Not being privy to knowledge that other people clearly had was a pet peeve of his; he was almost compulsively obsessed with knowing more than others.

   As if that was not bad enough, people from other houses kept staring at him and gossiping among themselves during lunch. Some of them looked between him and the Gryffindor table, too. Frowning, he wondered if this could be connected to Potter’s absence.

   Had something happened to him?

   A nagging worry started to eat away at him, and after spending thirty minutes picking at his food without managing to work up an appetite, he rose from the table. He went straight to the Hospital Wing to inquire after Potter, suspecting that some ailment may have befallen him during the night, but Madam Pomfrey informed him that the raven-haired boy had not been admitted.

   This was really starting to grate on him. Where was that little prick hiding?!

   Thinking that Potter might only be avoiding the classes that he shared with Draco—should there actually be some truth to Longbottom’s insinuations—he walked down to the pens where Hagrid taught Care of Magical Creatures. Maybe, just maybe, Potter would be there with his friends. Unfortunately, he was nowhere to be seen, and said friends were no more inclined to tell him where he was now than they had been earlier.

   Feeling frustrated and restless, Draco wound up spending his double free period roaming the castle and its grounds in search of Potter, checking every place one might expect the raven-haired boy to spend his time. There was no sign of him anywhere, and wherever he went he was met with reproachful stares and whispers. A brown-haired, self-righteous little Ravenclaw girl even threatened to ‘rearrange his limbs for him’ if he did not leave the Potions Club immediately.

   When Arithmancy—the last lesson of the day—came around and Potter still was missing, Draco was really starting to get worried. He did not quite understand it himself, but somehow he seemed to have grown so used to the Gryffindor’s constant presence that he could not relax and function properly without him there to attend to him.

   The seat next to him felt too empty, as if there was an invisible Dementor sitting there, stealthily sucking in all the happy feelings and memories of the people around it.

   He could not concentrate on anything Remus said, could not remember how to make notes, and when he was asked to solve a problem he misheard it four times, resulting in the other students sniggering at him spitefully. Burning with humiliation, he shot out of there as soon as class ended.

   Convinced that Madam Pomfrey had not been honest with him earlier, but that Potter was indeed lying gravely ill or mortally injured in a hospital bed somewhere, he returned to the infirmary and demanded to see him immediately. When the matron maintained that Harry Potter had not been admitted to the Hospital Wing once since the start of the term, Draco would not believe her and ultimately had to be escorted out with force.

   Cursing colourfully as he stalked through the draughty corridors, he in vain tried to reel his panicking mind back in. If Harry really was not in hospital, that must mean that he was all right—must it not? If something really had happened to him, Madam Pomfrey would not have lied to him about it, he was sure.

   He considered Longbottom’s words anew. _If Harry wanted to talk to you, he would._ Okay, so he might not want to talk to Draco, but there were always ways to force a conversation …

   Ten minutes later, he banged his fist on Sirius’s door, the agitation crackling inside of him making him pound the wood harder and longer than intended.

   “Calm down, calm down, I’m coming!” he heard from inside, but he still could not stop his hand from repeatedly falling on the door. He almost hit Sirius in the face when it finally swung open, but stopped right in the nick of time.

   The Groundskeeper took one look at him and understood that something was wrong. “Draco,” he said, stepping aside to let his young cousin in, “is something the matter?”

   Draco did not reply, but simply walked into the room. He came to a stop behind one of the dining chairs and placed his left hand on top of its back. He squeezed the wood so hard his knuckles turned a sickly alabaster white.

   “Draco? Come, tell me what’s wrong.”

   Finding the words to ask for help was hard, especially when he did not want to divulge the reason behind the desired favour. Drawing himself up and adopting a haughty front, he declared: “Potter has been avoiding me all day, and by doing so he is violating the punishment set by my father. I would like for you to contact him for me and, if possible, set up a meeting.”

   The older man had come around the table as he spoke and was now studying him with an unsettling disbelief in his grey eyes. It was as if he could see right through Draco, and he really did not want Sirius to know that he was actually worried about Harry.

   _Potter_ , he corrected himself. _Stay focused; don’t let him get to you. He is just Potter._

   “I assume you have some way of communicating with him that I don’t,” he elaborated, stubbornly meeting Sirius’s gaze without betraying anything.

   If the man did not buy his lie, he at least accepted Draco’s unspoken will to keep his thoughts to himself and nodded slowly. He proceeded to pull out a rather plain-looking black rectangle from his inner robes pocket and started to tap it with his thumbs in rapid succession.

   Draco watched in befuddlement.

   Putting the rectangle down on the table and then taking a seat, Sirius said, “There. I have sent him a message, so now we just wait and see if he replies.”

   Sitting down across from him, Draco stared down at the unassuming object in incredulity. “That’s it?” he wondered, feeling oddly offended at the simplicity of it all.

   Sirius shrugged. “That’s it.”

   “Well, that is highly disappointing. I’d have thought there would be some sort of flair involved, at least, like a flash of light or an annoying noise or something.”

   The corners of Sirius’s mouth twitched, as if he was trying to hold back a grin. “I have it set to vibrate, but I can turn on the sound for you, if you’d like,” he said with a clear note of mirth in his voice.

   “Er, no, that is quite all right,” Draco assured him while silently wondering what ‘set to vibrate’ meant. He studied the little rectangle apprehensively, ready to spring up from his chair if it came for him.

   That soon proved unnecessary, because nothing happened. Minute after minute ticked past without the slightest indication that Sirius’s message had gone through, and eventually the older man shook his head. “It doesn’t seem like Harry is able to reply at the moment,” he stated. “I’m sorry, Draco, but that is all I can do. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have some business to attend to.”

   Draco left the hut with a dejected feeling. He did not know what to do or how to deal with this perplexing development. Taking his retreat to the Slytherin common room, he tried to distract himself by hanging out with his mates. Initially, he was more of a silent onlooker than any kind of active participant, but as the evening progressed he found it easier to break out of his shell.

   Pansy soon made him regret his choice of pastime, though, for she kept pestering him about going with her and Auriola to the Friday night social gathering in the Great Hall. “Come on, Draco!” she whined after his umpteenth ‘no.’ She obstinately shook and pulled at his sleeve while shrieking at him like some deranged banshee. “You _never_ come, and it’s not as fun without you!”

   Finally, Draco yanked his arm free of her clutch. “All right, all right, I’ll come if you just belt up!” he snarled.

   She immediately mimicked zipping her mouth shut, looking mighty pleased and excited.

   He rolled his eyes at her and pointedly turned his head the other way. Spotting Marcus Flint over by the entrance, he snorted disdainfully. “How long is that oaf going to be held back?” he wondered out loud to no-one in particular. “He must be 22 by now—at least!—and he can’t even clear his NEWTs?”

   Miles, who had followed his gaze, merely shrugged indifferently. “Some people have a harder time than others with their academics.”

   “That’s an understatement! He’s a disgrace to all of Slytherin. Has there ever been anyone else repeating a year as many times as he has?”

   “I don’t think anyone’s _ever_ repeated a year in Slytherin before,” Crabbe pointed out.

   Draco threw up his hands. “There you have it! We should all petition my father to have him transferred to Hufflepuff. Let them deal with him.”

   To his friends, he seemed like the usual Draco—the self-righteous and pompous Headmaster’s son who picked on people for sport—but in reality he was just latching onto anything that may provide distraction from the question that kept spinning further and further out of control within him:

   _Where the Hell_ is _he?!_

 

 

* * *

 

 

When classes ended for the day, Hermione hurried back up to Gryffindor Tower as quickly as she could without upsetting Oliver in his pushchair. Her mind had been on Harry all day, and she needed to make sure that he was okay. Thank Merlin Cedric was with him, at least.

   That morning, when it had become obvious that Harry would not be able to go to school, Cedric had instantly volunteered to stay with him and make sure that he was not alone. Hermione had objected to that, arguing that they should all take turns so they would not miss more than one lesson each.

   She understood and could very well relate to his need to be there for his friend; Harry was her best friend, so she would like nothing better than to be by his side through the duration of … whatever this was. But unfortunately, the side of her that was a tad too obsessive-compulsive for her own good would never allow that.

   Naturally, it was that part of her that had taken control when she suggested they all take turns keeping him company, and thanks to Cedric stubbornly standing his ground she had gone through the day constantly consulting her watch, anxious to have the day over with.

   In all these years of knowing and loving Harry, she had never been this worried about him. In all these years, he had never broken down as completely as he had the night before. It had scared her, seeing him like that, crying and shaking on the floor and not even capable of holding himself up …

   She still had no idea why he had been crying so miserably, but something awful must have happened—and she suspected that Malfoy had something to do with it. All of this started when Harry was forced to become that git’s servant. And seeing Malfoy going around demanding to know where Harry was only to get his serving man back made her furious.

   The nerve of him! Acting as if nothing had happened …

   Well, provided that something _had_ happened between them, of course. It would not be fair to jump to conclusions when there was a slight possibility that this was completely unrelated.

   Entering the boys’ dorm room at last, Hermione immediately noticed that Harry was lying in the exact same position as he had when she left them that morning. His back was to the door, and he had pulled up his legs under him and looked like he was hugging himself.

   Cedric was sitting next to him on the bed, with his back resting against the headboard and a book open in his lap. He did not seem to be reading it, though. His eyes had been focused on Harry’s stock-still form until he heard Hermione coming, whereupon he put his hand on Harry’s shoulder and gave it a short, reassuring squeeze. “I’ll be right back,” he murmured.

   Once he had joined her at the door, she whispered: “How is he doing?”

   The concerned look on Cedric’s face said it all. “He hasn’t said a word,” he informed her. “I have no idea why he’s hurting so badly, and it’s killing me.”

   “I know what you mean,” Hermione sighed, looking over at their apathetic friend. Biting her lip, she thought frenetically, wracking her brain for something to do that might ease his pain.

   But if he was not even moving, was not even registering other people’s presence … then what could they really do, other than to wait him out and support him through his suffering?

   Cedric put a comforting hand on her shoulder. “He’ll be all right,” he said with more conviction than she could muster.

   Oh, how she hoped he was right.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Thursday morning, Draco once again stood outside the Slytherin common room and impatiently waited for Potter to appear around the bend in the corridor. Group after group of his housemates passed him on their way to breakfast, many of them throwing him odd looks and whispering about him, but he paid them no mind. His eyes were focused solely on picking out that tell-tale mop of black hair in the crowd.

   Why did he have to be so bloody short?! He would have been much easier to spot if he had at least had the decency to grow to Draco’s height …

   In the end, it did not matter, of course; the Gryffindor did not show up.

   _Okay, that is_ it _!_ he thought angrily, stomping off in the direction of the winding staircase that led out of the Dungeons. _I have had it with this dickhead behaviour!_

   He went straight up to Gryffindor Tower and used a special override password that was supposed to be for dire emergencies only to gain access to the dormitories hidden behind the Fat Lady. Without preamble, he walked into the common room with his chin held high, slowly letting his eyes take in the throng of crimson-and-gold-clad teens and tweens.

   As the lions realised that there was a snake in their midst, they stopped whatever they had been doing and just stared open-mouthed at him in bewilderment.

   He ignored them and simply asked: “Where are the boys’ dormitories?”

   At first, he got nothing but a dim silence from the Gryffindors, but once their shock at seeing him there had lifted somewhat, a few of them spoke up.

   “You shouldn’t be here,” a fifth-year girl pointed out.

   “A Slytherin has no business in the Gryffindor dorms,” a brave third-year boy chimed in.

   More and more voices joined the first ones, and their infuriating reluctance to let Draco through was pissing him off. He was just about to bite a few heads off when he noticed a couple of boys entering the common room through a door in the back. “Never mind, I’ll find them myself,” he muttered, and carelessly pushed past the rabid Gryffindors.

   On the other side of the door was a winding staircase, so he hurried upwards, taking two stairs at a time. Wondering how he was going to find the right floor—not to mention the right room—he cast his head about in every direction, desperately searching for someone he recognised. Soon he figured out that the first-years’ dorms were situated at the bottom of the tower and that years increased with the floors, so Har— _Potter_ must be on the top floor.

   Halfway between the sixth and the seventh floor, he came upon Longbottom and Diggory, who were on their way down. Recognising him, they both sprang into action and tried to stop him from passing them, but he would not be perturbed; when they would not let him through voluntarily, he simply pulled out his wand and used a few well-placed jinxes to make them more acquiescent.

   He was going to see Potter regardless of what it would cost him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

He had no idea how long he had been lying there, or how long he had been alone; he only knew that his chest was hurting so much he could hardly breathe. It felt as if someone had put his lungs in a vice and sadistically tightened it until they almost imploded.

   His head was pounding after hours and hours of unstoppable crying, and his eyes felt swollen and sandy. They were constantly smarting, so he preferred to keep them closed against the too-bright daylight sifting in through the windows.

   During his time in bed, he had caught snippets of conversations between his friends, so he knew that they were immensely worried about him. Yet, he could not quite make himself care; it was as if nothing really mattered anymore.

   Even though it did not make any sense whatsoever, he truly felt as if there was no reason for him to get out of bed if he could not see Malfoy again. If there was absolutely no chance of Malfoy ever liking him, in any way, then he may as well never leave the comfort of his duvet.

   At least it would always be warm towards him.

   A ruckus outside the dorm room reached him in his semi-torpor, but he did not pay much mind to it. Rows were rather common with them all living in such tight quarters. But when Neville, who was normally such a calm and collected person, began to shout at someone to ‘stay away,’ his interest piqued somewhat.

   Another male voice responded by roaring out Body-Binding Jinxes.

   Suddenly, the door to the room was flung open with a loud _bang!_ that probably would have made Harry jump if he had not been so utterly exhausted.

   “Potter, what is the meaning of you skiving off and neglecting your duties?!” the unmistakeable, drawling, and quite pissed off voice of Draco Malfoy demanded, managing to catch his full attention as nothing else had since Tuesday night.

   Harry was so shocked to hear it so clearly—no hallucination would be that forceful—that he immediately spun around in his bed to stare at the blonde in disbelief. His brain could not seem to commute that he was actually there.

   Malfoy did not wait for him to reply, though, but simply took a few steps into the room, seemingly to disentangle himself from the growing group of Harry’s friends that were trying to pry him away from there. Cedric was at the forefront, heatedly telling Malfoy to show some respect and leave Harry alone.

   Apparently, Neville had been the one hit with the Body-Binding Jinx, because he came staggering into view with that tell-tale, jerky rigidity that lingered in the body for a couple hours after revitalisation. At the same time, Hermione joined the throng, and when her eyes fell on the blonde they went blacker than he had ever seen them before.

   “How dare you just walk in here as if nothing’s happened?” she snarled, beside herself with indignation. “Just because you happen to be the Headmaster’s son doesn’t mean you can go wherever you please with absolutely no consideration for the people you screw over!”

   She made to go over to the blonde, perhaps to grab him and attempt to pull him out of the room, but Neville held her back. Stunned, she turned to look at him—and noticed the jinx side effects. Spinning on Malfoy anew, she cried: “You _jinxed_ Neville?!”

   The blonde rolled his eyes in exasperation. “Of course I did, he wouldn’t let me through,” he said, as if it was the most natural thing in the world to curse everyone who stood in your way. “Now, would you kindly back the fuck off and let me have a conversation with my servant?”

   Hermione looked as if she was about to explode. “No!” she expelled with immense force.

   “No, there will be no conversation,” Cedric agreed, his face uncharacteristically flushed with anger; it took a whole deal to make Cedric angry.

   During this exchange, the scene playing out before him finally registered, and Harry realised that this was actually happening—that Malfoy was really there. It was no hallucination. The blonde had walked straight into the heart of Gryffindor to seek him out, seemingly not caring about the uproar he was causing.

   “Why?”

   Everyone fell silent and stared at him in puzzlement, shocked to find him talking for the first time in two days.

   Everyone but Malfoy. “Why what?” he asked straightforwardly.

   Not feeling comfortable with lying in bed while talking to the Slytherin, Harry threw the duvet aside and got up, hardly even noticing the stinging cold of the flagged floor against his bare feet. Determinedly meeting the blonde’s gaze, he elaborated: “Why are you here?”

   That question reignited the ire in their onlookers, and the noisy stream of demands for Malfoy to leave commenced at double volume.

   Evidently fed up with them, Malfoy turned around towards the door. “Oh, for crying out loud!” he groaned, and directed his wand at the door, making it slam shut in their faces. He then proceeded to lock it with a charm that Harry had never heard before, but he assumed that was what it did since no-one seemed to be able to open it after that.

   “ _Muffliato_ ,” the blonde finished, then returned his attention to Harry. “There; now we can talk without those infuriating mongrels constantly interrupting.”

   An uncomfortable and awkward silence fell between them. Seeing as Malfoy had gone to such trouble to see him, one might think that he would lead the conversation, but he seemed rather uncertain and hesitant. He had come in there with his usual hot temper flaring in all directions, but now he merely looked at Harry with an odd glint in his silver eyes.

   “Why have you not been in school?” he finally asked, and even though the usual insistent, demanding tone was there, it was also underlined by something else. “Are you sick?”

   Jerking his head up in shock, Harry realised that the blonde sounded worried.

   _Worried._

   For a moment, he did not know how to even react to that uncharacteristic display of caring, but eventually he remembered why they were in this situation to begin with and started to get angry instead. The burning hurt was rekindled, because Malfoy had gutted him and was now standing in front of him without understanding what was wrong with him.

   Closing himself off from the other boy emotionally, Harry adopted an indifferent expression and said, “You said you never wanted to see my face again, remember?”

   The blonde started visibly and his eyes widened slightly for a moment. Then he seemed to collect himself and, true to his aristocratic and dignified persona, looked down his nose at Harry. “I was pissed off,” he declared haughtily. “You will find I don’t always mean what I say when I’m angry.”

   It both looked and sounded like a poor excuse, and Harry was not buying it. “Well, you convinced me,” he muttered, the memory of Tuesday night flashing before his eyes; the blonde backing away in panic, with that undisguised revulsion shining in his silver eyes …

   An invisible knife seemed to pierce his chest as it all washed over him again. He felt his knees begin to tremble, as if they would buckle under the weight of his pain at any second. Even though he must surely have emptied his tear stores by now, his eyes were once more smarting and burning in warning.

   “You’ve been crying.”

   The blonde’s words pulled him back to the present. It was not so much the words themselves that stole his attention, but the way Malfoy had said them. It had been more of a whisper, and definitely a statement rather than a question. Presumably, he had just put two and two together—Harry’s red and puffy eyes, the cracked quality to his voice, his lying in bed when he ought to be preparing for school—and was only now seeing the situation for what it was.

   Even snakes could be slow at times.

   Frowning, Harry looked up into the blonde’s face, trying to decrypt the deceptively emotionless expression on it. Was there a shadow of remorse in his eyes, or was that just wishful thinking?

   Without acknowledging Malfoy’s latest statement, Harry set his jaw and said, “Well, since my face is sort of attached to the rest of me, I thought I’d stay away so I wouldn’t inconvenience you anymore.”

   “But I want you with me!” the blonde exclaimed impulsively, shocking them both. Apparently he had not planned to say that, because his cheeks flushed an angry crimson and he quickly averted his gaze.

   But he did not refute it.

   Harry was so baffled he could not find anything to say. Malfoy … wanted him with him?  Not ‘needed him’ in the capacity of a servant … but _wanted_ his company?

   Hope once again lit a tiny candle inside of him, and he felt oddly happy despite everything. Nodding to himself, he finally said, “All right, give me a minute and I’ll come with you.”

   The blonde seemed a bit surprised by that, as if he had anticipated Harry to keep refusing. However, he nodded, pleased with his assent, and made to leave. “I shall wait for you outside the portrait,” he informed soberly. “Don’t be too long; classes will start in fifteen minutes.”

   When he unlocked and opened the door, Hermione, Cedric, and Neville practically fell into the room. Shaking his head and rolling his eyes, Malfoy pushed past them and disappeared down the corridor.

   By then, Harry was already assembling his things, preparing to run into the bathroom for a quick shower.

   “Harry,” Hermione huffed, sounding stunned, “you’re going to school?”

   “Yeah,” he answered, forcing out a reassuring smile to placate her. “Can’t lie around here and feel sorry for myself, can I?”

   She scowled at him in bewilderment, at a loss for words.

   Laughing at her comical expression, he gave her a small peck on the cheek. “Don’t worry, ‘Mione, I’m fine,” he assured her. “And not to be rude or anything, but unless you wanna see me naked you should probably go now. I’ll see you at lunch, okay?”

   Blushing, she reluctantly retreated, allowing herself to be led away by Neville.

   When it was just him and Cedric left, he was able to relax and breathe out. He hated worrying his friends, especially Hermione who always seemed to worry enough for the entire house and really did not need more on her plate.

   “Are you all right?” Cedric asked him, casually enveloping him in his strong arms.

   Harry gratefully rested his head against the crook of his neck. “Yeah, I’m all right now,” he murmured, snuggling closer into the embrace to fully enjoy the sense of security and peace it gave him. He noted that Cedric smelled of vanilla shampoo and semi-burnt toast.

   Letting go somewhat so he could look Harry in the eyes, the taller boy frowned. “Are you sure? I mean, the look on your face when he burst in here …”

   Harry started involuntarily. The last thing he wanted was for people to catch on to his strange, masochistic predilection for the blonde—least of all Cedric, of course.

   “Did he do something to you?”

   Forcing out what he hoped was an easy, carefree smile, Harry shook his head. “Him turning up was simply what jolted me out of … whatever that was. I mean, Malfoy of all people running around the Gryffindor dorms?” He actually managed to tease a chuckle out of Cedric with that one. “If I keep him waiting for much longer, that might change, though—sorry.”

   He gave Cedric a tender kiss and whispered a ‘thank you’ before he bundled up his school robes and hurried off to the bathroom.

   This first day of October passed like any other Thursday, with the exception of their double Potions at the end of the day. The Polyjuice Potions had been finalised and would now be tested. Professor Slughorn asked them to each fill a vial of the potion they had made and then add a hair from their own head to it. He then collected them all and put them in a red velvet drawstring bag.

   “Now, I want you to come up here, one by one, and pull a vial out of the bag,” Slughorn was instructing them. “Once everyone has their vial, you will drink it. If everyone has followed the instructions successfully, we should be seeing each and every one of you turning into one of your classmates.”

   It was said that the Polyjuice Potion took on some of the qualities of the person it was supposed to replicate, and Harry was afraid that he would wind up having to drink something so nasty it ought never to have seen the light of day. He was therefore hesitating for quite some time before finally pulling the stopper out of the vial he had plucked out of the bag.

   The potion within smelled nauseatingly floral, but with some sort of chemical undertone that made him think of his aunt Petunia’s lipstick. Scrunching up his nose, he grunted, “I think I got a girl.”

   Malfoy leaned in and took a whiff, then gagged noisily. “Don’t be so sure—it might be Goyle’s,” he pointed out.

   Harry raised his eyebrows in incredulity and looked straight at the gentle giant at the table in front of theirs. “ _Goyle’s_?”

   Apparently having heard the exchange, Goyle gave him a confirmative smile and nodded silently.

   Next to him, Malfoy had just unstoppered his own vial and was cursing loudly in revulsion. “What in God’s name is in this thing?!” he exclaimed, holding the hated object out from himself at arm’s length.

   “That’s the second time you’ve mentioned ‘God,’” Harry pointed out. “Are you religious, Malfoy?”

   To his understanding, it was rare for pure-blood witches and wizards to believe in any form of deity since they had been brought up with the knowledge that the gods and prophets that were worshipped by Muggles had all been Dark wizards and witches trying to gain control and power over others. Most pure-blood families lived completely isolated from the Muggle world and thus were never exposed to their beliefs.

   The blonde gave him a murderous glare. “My mother is, alright? Seventeen years of indoctrination is difficult to ignore.”

   That actually explained a lot of things.

   All around the room, people were starting to cry out in shock, disgust, and sometimes even pain. Before his very eyes, Harry saw Luna’s flesh bubble sickeningly until she turned into his cousin Dudley. Fascinated, and still very much with Luna’s mannerisms and dreamy qualities, she looked down at herself and made a few trying movements. Then, to everyone’s horror, she put a hand between her legs and sort of squeezed around the new naughty bits there. “Oh, so that’s what it feels like,” she commented as casually as if she was merely mentioning the weather.

   “Hey, don’t do that!” Dudley’s appalled voice cried from Zabini’s body.

   “Come on, don’t dawdle!” Professor Slughorn called from the front of the class, and impatiently clapped his hands together.

   Exchanging a knowing look, Harry and Malfoy downed their potions in one quick swig. Harry almost instantly began to choke; his throat was burning and reeked of flowers, as if he had just swallowed a bottle of perfume. He had expected the transformation to be painful, but he had not expected it to feel as if his body was melting, so when an almost unbearable heat enveloped every part of his being and caused his flesh to swiftly rearrange and recreate itself he cried out and fell against the table.

   The blonde did not seem to be faring any better, for he whimpered and then whined out a miserable “I’ve just drunk liquid slugs!”

   Harry really hoped it was not his vial the blonde had received; he did not want to be The Boy Who Tasted Like Liquid Slugs.

   “Haha, look at me!” Crabbe’s voice chirruped behind them, effectively drawing Harry’s attention. Apparently, the lumbering boy had turned into Hermione and was showing a rather repulsive interest in the bumps underneath his shirt, which seemed more like a tent on Hermione’s short, slender figure.

   But before he could explore his new body further, the five-foot-three frame of blond and brown-eyed Julie Parkes came flying at him so forcefully that her red-and-gold tie did a full 360-turn around her neck. “You wouldn’t dare!” Hermione’s voice came out of her, and it was _not_ happy.

   “Oh, good lord, no,” Malfoy said next to him, and he sounded so horrified that Harry immediately turned towards him.

   Only he did not look like himself anymore …

   Trying not to betray anything, Harry merely asked: “Something, er, wrong?”

   Malfoy let out a very descriptive ‘ugh.’ “Please stop talking,” he begged, averting his eyes.

   Confused, Harry took a step closer to him by reflex. “Why? Did I get a bad one?”

   “No, don’t come any closer!” the blonde exclaimed, throwing his arms up defensively. “It’s creeping me out, you looking like Pansy and sounding like—like— _you_!”

   Harry started in understanding. “Oh.” So, Malfoy was weirded out because he looked like Pansy, was he? “Well … I don’t mean to scare you or anything, but if you’re having trouble with this—” He made a sweeping motion over his currently curvy form. “—you’re probably not gonna want to look in a mirror …”

   He knew that it was Malfoy giving him that suspicious and dread-filled glare, but it really was proving difficult to bear that in mind when looking into the hideous face he was wearing at present.

   “Oh no …,” the blonde said, starting to tremble a little. “Please, don’t tell me that I’m—” He cast a simple Reflection Charm on the surface of the potion in their mutual cauldron, then shrieked. “No, no, no—of all the people in here, why did I have to turn into fucking _Flint_!?”

   Having had quite enough of that monstrous face, himself, Harry turned towards Luna and Goyle’s table instead—and found that Goyle had turned into Malfoy. Only, it was not the usual self-satisfied, arrogant, cold blonde that met his gaze, but a version that sported Goyle’s mild and gentle nature. Completely fascinated, he could not stop staring at the kindly smile, the relaxed features, and the warm, amiable look in those grey eyes that always seemed to transfix him of late.

   It was like coming face to face with the person he was _wishing_ that Malfoy could be.

   “Hey! I’m over here!” the real Malfoy interrupted him, effectively snapping him back to reality.

   A bit dazed, Harry said, “Wha’?”

   Flint-Malfoy defiantly crossed his arms over his chest. “I know it must be hard for you to resist such a handsome and stately man—” He nodded at Goyle, who was currently giving Malfoy’s face an angelic smile. “—but the real me is still here, so I would greatly appreciate it if you could shift your attention to me for a moment.”

   Harry tried, he really did, but that image of Malfoy smiling at him was impossible to shake. If only he could smile at him like that for real …

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco was feeling highly uncomfortable about the whole ‘I don’t want to see your face’-incident, as he came to think of it. Somehow, it had not even crossed his mind that Potter may have taken offense to his … abrupt departure. He was not used to considering—or even thinking about—other people’s feelings, and he could not remember the last time he had actually cared.

   To his great surprise, he did care when it came to Potter.

   Seeing him in his room that morning … blood-shot eyes that looked half swollen shut and spongy, emeralds that had lost their sheen, the skin red and irritated all the way down to the jawline … the defeated stance, the emotional withdrawal, the set in his jaw …

   Admittedly, he had not noticed at first, caught up in his own indignation as he was, but when Potter had suddenly started to tremble and his eyes had begun to glisten with excess wetness, Draco had finally been able to connect the dots.

   Never before had another person’s tears given birth to anything but irritation or frustration in him. Oh, he was feeling plenty frustrated now, too! But that was not all; far from it.

   The raven-haired boy had been upset _because of him_. Because of his poor way of handling what happened two nights ago.

   He had been scared shitless when it dawned on him what was happening between them, and even more so when it registered with him that he actually _liked_ it. Terrified by his actions and what they might mean for him if he allowed things to progress even further, he had resorted to his old defensive mechanism and turned fear into anger.

   Anger was a much more effective shield.

   It bothered him that he was the cause of Potter’s distress, and throughout the day, the little nugget of guilt inside him grew bigger for every time the raven-haired boy started at a harsh note in his voice, for every time a reproachful glare made him shrink back from Draco—and most of all for every time he deliberately avoided his touch.

   It left Draco at a loss for what to do to smooth things over—because he certainly did not want some sort of chasm to open up between Potter and him. At the same time, he could not change who he was.

   With the Gryffindor safely back at his side, he also started to become more aware of what was going on around him, as opposed to when he had been completely preoccupied with finding him and had not been able to think about anything else. Now that the sounds of the world around him returned, he heard more than he would have wanted.

   In true Hogwarts spirit, the entire school knew that Potter had suffered some sort of breakdown and had been unable to ‘face reality’—and the general consensus seemed to be that Draco had caused it. It was of course old news that they hated each other and had been enemies since first year, so maybe it should not surprise him that the majority of the students jumped to that conclusion.

   But that did not make it any easier to grin and bear it. Wherever they went, he caught snippets of whispered conversations between people who were stunned to see the Gryffindor at his side again. ‘Why would Potter hang around the person who had reduced him to a nervous wreck?’ they seemed to think.

   The guilt built up in the form of heavy pressure inside his chest, and the further into the day they got, the worse he felt. It was plain to see that Potter was keeping a distance to him now, and that only fuelled the rumours further. When the Gryffindor had his back turned, Draco was met with dark, judging glares and taunts, hatred and threats.

   It unnerved him, but surprisingly not only because his reputation was taking a hit, but also because he did not want people to think that he had deliberately hurt Harry.

   _Potter._

   Eventually, while they were on their way to dinner, he simply could not take it anymore; the pressure in his chest was threatening to detonate like a bomb if he did not come clean to Potter. Therefore, he stopped the raven-haired boy just as they stepped out into the Entrance Hall and forced him to look at him. “Potter,” he began, clearing his throat nervously. “Look, I never meant to—”

   “I would just like for everyone to know that I broke up with Harry Potter Tuesday night,” Luna’s voice suddenly rang out loud and clear for everyone to hear, and the constant susurration of voices died down in an instant.

   Both Draco and Potter stared over at the stairs leading up from the Entrance Hall, where Luna was standing, calmly gazing out over everyone assembled.

   “As I’m sure you’ve all heard, Harry and I were dating,” she continued in her unique, dreamy voice, “but I’ve come to feel that I need to move on to other things, so I broke up with him. I’m sad to say that he was rather devastated, so you see, I’m the one at fault here, really.”

   The two boys were both shocked silent at her sudden stunt, but Luna herself could not have been more matter-of-fact about it. Evidently done with her announcement, she jumped down from the stairs and began to skip off, unnervingly unaffected by the gossiping, scandalised-looking crowd.

   As she passed them, Draco could clearly hear her saying, “I got your back.”

   Blinking in incredulity, he stared after her retreating back.

   For some inexplicable reason, her trick worked; over the course of dinner, the rumour mill shifted its attention from Draco to this new juicy bit of information. The people who seemed reluctant to believe in Luna’s version of events were embarrassingly few.

   _Just goes to show how bloody stupid people are_ , he thought to himself as he went on his way after dismissing Potter. The guilt was still taking stabs at him from the inside, so he had decided to give his servant the night off in order to soothe it somewhat.

   Before he could take his refuge to the Dungeons, though, he found his way cut off by the tiny, black-haired form of Potter’s little sister. The thing gazed up at him with a precocious directness in its emerald green eyes—eyes that were so much like its brother’s that it gave him the shivers.

   Uncertain of how to handle children, he tried to scout out an escape route.

   “I know you and Harry had a row,” the little monster said in a clear and innocent voice, “and I know Luna’s just trying to help you, because she and Harry have never been together.”

   _Blimey, this thing is perceptive._

   “Draco—” He jerked involuntarily at it addressing him so familiarly. “—please don’t be mean to Harry. He’s a really good person.”

   He looked down at it, not sure what to do.

   It gave him a genuine, sweet smile, and said, “I don’t want to dislike you.”

   One last piercing look at him and then it was walking away. Stunned, he stared after it, silently wondering what the Hell had just happened.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was sitting next to Ron at dinner the next day, enjoying the fact that Malfoy seemed to be too deep in thoughts to remember to call on him much. What was even better was that he would get another night off, since the blonde was going to spend the evening in the Great Hall with his friends. He was only too happy to get out of _that_ ; he hated such social gatherings.

   “Isn’t he just gorgeous?” Ron sighed next to him, casting a moony glance over at the Slytherin table.

   Harry followed the ginger’s line of sight to see who he was looking at. “Who, Malfoy?” he wondered as his eyes fell on the blonde.

   He was sitting straight-backed with his chin held high, thoughtfully chewing his food with slow, elegant jaw movements. Always when observing Malfoy, his aristocratic upbringing had been synonymous with his person; his stiff posture, his haughty disinterest in everyone around him, his correct and annoyingly sophisticated manners and movement patterns …

   But that was only the surface, was not it? If one looked twice, the blonde’s features were beautifully chiselled—the high cheekbones, the marked lines of his somewhat pointy jaw, his straight nose. His broad shoulders looked strong enough to carry any weight, an image that was reinforced by his confident bearing. The silvery pale hair fell like a glowing halo around his face, perfectly framing the equally silvery grey eyes that seemed to be able to pierce through steel.

   Even now that his pallid forehead and flawlessly shaped eyebrows were wrinkled in introspective reflection, there was an unmistakable charm to its architecture. And as the perfect centrepiece, his pale-pink lips had a slight pout to them that was incredibly sexy.

   “Yeah, I guess he’s rather good-looking when you think about it,” Harry said throatily, more to himself than as an actual reply to his mate.

   Ron was so transfixed by his new prey that he did not even turn to look at Harry. “What? No, not Malfoy—I’m talking about the dark and brooding beauty sitting next to him, of course!” he declared, and once again sighed like a school girl with a mad crush.

   Frowning, Harry extended his field of view to the people flanking Malfoy and noticed Bletchley on his left. Yeah, that bloke could be said to be darkly brooding, alright …

   “There’s no getting into Malfoy’s pants,” Ron continued, sounding whiningly disappointed. “I mean, not for lack of trying, of course …”

   Inevitably, Harry’s heart sank a few flights farther in his chest. “Didn’t manage to make him bend your way, eh?” he stated, feeling dejected.

   Naturally the blonde was straight. Him snogging Harry could probably be attributed to the blow he had taken to the head. And if Ron, who possessed the most accurate gaydar in the entire school, had put down his sonar in the Malfoy waters and received no signal—

   “Oh, he’s as gay as they come, believe me!” Ron assured him emphatically. “He’s just extremely picky. Such a shame …”

   Harry started, then felt his heart picking up speed in his chest. Malfoy was gay? _Really?_

   But then …

   No; it did not matter. Malfoy being just as bent as Harry did not change the fact that he was an arsehole who never thought twice about using people for his own benefit. It did not change the fact that he was a self-centred, egotistic knobhead who did not even realise that he had hurt Harry and certainly did not seem to care, seeing as he was once again keeping him at a distance.

   _But I want you with me!_

   Yeah, right. If he really wanted Harry with him, telling him to bugger off as soon as all compulsory activities ended was definitely a dead tell. 10/10, would hang out again.

   As soon as he was dismissed, Harry went up to Gryffindor Tower to meet up with Cedric. The taller boy was pleasantly surprised to be asked for a walk ‘to discuss Quidditch strategy.’ On their way out, they took a detour to the kitchen and begged a picnic basket and some heated up Butterbeer, then stole out through a seldom-used side exit.

   With the sun just setting in the background, they strolled along the edges of the forest, Cedric’s hand casually slipping into Harry’s once they had got far enough from the castle to risk it.

   It was rather enjoyable, just walking side by side in the moonlight while talking about insignificant things. He reckoned this would have been the part where they got to know each other better, had they been like other couples that had just started dating. But since they had been close friends for the past six years, they already knew each other and could joke and banter in an easy-going and familiar manner that comforted Harry.

   When they grew tired of walking, they went back to the Black Lake and settled down in a secluded area with their food and steaming Butterbeer. Spending time with Cedric was pure pleasure, and it was nice to get away from the stress and demands of his current life.

   But even though he really liked Cedric and enjoyed his company, he could not help but notice how different it felt to kiss him compared to the electrified, arousing, almost desperate snogging he had engaged in with Malfoy. There was a ghost of a physical reaction, yes, but it seemed more automated than anything else. No proverbial sparks flying.

   Seeing Cedric happy made him happy, though. He truly cared about him, and he loved him for everything he had done for him following his breakdown. That was who he should be with; the person who cared about him and who was there for him no matter what happened.

   The person who deserved his affection and devotion.

   When curfew—which on Fridays and Saturdays was extended to 11 for fourth-years and up—drew near, they decided it was best to head back. Not wanting to draw unnecessary attention to themselves, they agreed that Cedric should go first and Harry follow some ten, fifteen minutes later.

   He therefore waited about ten minutes in the darkness beneath the oak trees, smiling to himself over the wonderful evening he had had, before returning to the castle. It was starting to get cold at night, so he was more than happy to get inside the comparatively warm Entrance Hall and rub some heat back into his frozen hands.

   “Out attracting more werewolves, Potter?”

   Harry swirled around at the sound of Malfoy’s supercilious drawl, almost instantly wishing that he had not.

   The blonde looked breathtakingly smart in expensive, tailored deep viridian dress robes so dark they almost seemed black in the semi-dim torchlight. Green truly was his colour, in every hue and saturation. Dressed for a night at the ball, he appeared to be in his element, preened to look his absolute best.

   And Harry was mesmerised.

   “No full moon,” he croaked huskily once he finally managed to find his voice again.

   The superior sneer that creeped up the blonde’s right cheek sent anticipatory shivers down Harry’s spine.

   “I’m sure you could find a way to thwart nature,” Malfoy mocked, starting to make his way past him.

   Not ready to part with him just yet, Harry quickly fell into step. “I’ll walk you to the Dungeon,” he offered a bit too eagerly for his own liking.

   He blushed when the Slytherin laughed patronisingly at him. “Are you really so desperate to serve the great Draco Malfoy? Fine. Lead me to my lair, then, slave.”

   Raising an eyebrow at the blonde’s strange behaviour, Harry asked: “Have you been drinking?” He gazed back at the big doors leading to the Great Hall. “I thought the professors wouldn’t allow alcohol at the social gatherings—”

   “You’d be surprised how easy it is to slip a little something in to spike the drinks with,” Malfoy bragged airily as he opened the door to the Dungeons and started down the winding staircase. “Besides, it would be unbearable to spend an entire evening with Pansy and her posse without getting pissed.”

   That seemed legit.

   They walked along the cold, damp Dungeon corridors in silence for a good while until the blonde suddenly stopped two-thirds of the way to the Slytherin dorms. He seemed to be struck by indecision, as if he was having an inner argument with himself.

   Harry was just about to ask him what the holdup was when an ancient-looking wooden door swung open ten feet ahead of them and Malfoy made a waving motion towards it. “If I may have a word with you, out of the corridor where someone might overhear?” he wondered, making it sound more like a statement than a query.

   Baffled, Harry merely gave a short nod and followed when the blonde slid inside the room, by all appearances floating over the flagged floor rather than walking.

   Inside, with the door closed and a Muffling Spell cast, Malfoy once again appeared to be considering his alternatives about something. Finally, he sighed deeply and met Harry’s eyes, saying, “I’m sorry. About what happened Tuesday night. I … I never meant to …”

   He bit his lip, evidently having problems with getting the words out. Hell, if it had not been for the fact that he had been drinking he may not even have said that much.

   The hesitant frown on his pale forehead and the contemplative chewing on his full, semi-pursed lips made Harry ache with desire, and coupled with his genuine apology it became a volatile mix. Without even realising that he had taken the steps to close the gap between them, he had pulled the surprised blonde to him and raised himself up on his toes to press his lips to his.

   This time, Malfoy’s reaction was swifter; he bent his head down to meet Harry halfway, hungrily parting his lips with an excited moan. Encouraged, Harry tightened his grip around the blonde’s back and brought their bodies even closer together, all the while deepening their snogging. Feeling his tongue brushing up against Malfoy’s was incredibly exhilarating and made his entire body flare up with a hot, tingling sensation that erased everything else.

   Time faded away; it was of no importance anymore. All Harry knew was that they snogged for so long that his lips began to feel a bit sore, as if they would swell up and betray their nocturnal pastime to anyone keen enough to notice the matching set.

   When they finally drew apart to catch their breaths, the blonde gave him a tentative look. “Maybe this is not a bad thing,” he claimed, sounding as if he wanted to be convinced of his own assessment.

   “Definitely didn’t feel like a bad thing,” Harry concurred, unable to break eye contact with those captivating, silvery pools.

   “As long as nobody else finds out—”

   “Oh, yeah, nobody’s definitely not gonna find out about this—that would be bad. That would ruin things,” Harry found himself babbling and felt like face-palming himself into oblivion when he heard himself. What the Hell was wrong with him?!

   “—then there’s no reason why we can’t do this again. Right?” Malfoy finished with equal parts uncertainty and hopefulness in his voice.

   Harry was just happy that the blonde did not seem to have registered his asinine commentary. “Right,” he confirmed. “We can do this whenever we want to, however often we want to. It’s no-one else’s business what we do when we’re alone, is it?”

   Malfoy let out an uncharacteristic, nervous chuckle. “Okay, good.” He slowly, hesitantly bent down to place a soft kiss on Harry’s lips, maybe intending it to be a parting, but it ended up with them once again snogging for so long that they were completely out of breath when they ultimately managed to pull apart.

   “Er, I should probably …” Malfoy began, nodding towards the door when words failed him.

   “Oh, yeah, sure—me, too,” Harry said, stepping aside to let him by.

   When the blonde had left, it felt surreal. This was simply too impossible to have actually happened; it must have been a dream—a mirage.

   His swollen lips told a different story, though. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _And I don't enjoy to watch you crumble  
>  I don't enjoy to watch you cry_
> 
> — Placebo, _Begin the End_
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who use the metric system:
> 
> 5’5” = 165 cm  
> 5’3” = 160 cm


	10. In Dangerous Waters

 

Dazed and befuddled in one moment, lyrical and grinning sheepishly the next, Harry walked back up to Gryffindor Tower and did not even bat an eye when the Fat Lady scolded him for being out past 3 am. He was nigh on bursting with elation after his clandestine encounter with Malfoy.

   He still had this weird otherworldly feeling, like none of it had been real. Time and again, he raised his hand to his mouth to slowly run a finger along his thin lower lip, remembering the sensation of the blonde’s soft, warm lips on his.

   The mere memory sent shivers down his spine.

   He had to restrain himself from chuckling amusedly at how bizarre it all was as he stole into the dark, quiet dorm room on his way to his bed. But then his eyes fell on the peacefully sleeping form of Cedric and felt a stab of guilt. The taller boy—for all intents and purposes his _boyfriend_ —looked so contented, so void of trouble …

   And here Harry had just spent four hours snogging Malfoy.

   Feeling bad, he just wanted to crawl into the bed with Cedric and put his arms around him as a silent apology. He was supposed to be with _him_ ; acting on his hormonal physical desires was no way to repay this amazing bloke for everything he had done for him.

   Because that was all it was, was not it? Hormones raging inside a teenage boy on the cusp of embracing his sexuality, his orientation. The closet door had been opened the tiniest crack, and he was peering out, nervously assessing the situation outside before stepping out of it. Adolescence had finally caught up with him and his body was yearning for new experiences.

   Coincidentally, the Slytherin happened to possess a chemical makeup that created a forceful reaction when combined with Harry’s own and that made him close to impossible to resist. But chemistry was all it was; hormones making him feel a million confusing, exhilarating, _dangerous_ temptations.

   _But since it is just hormones … it might be something that I simply need to get out of my system_ , he thought to himself. _And once it is out, it’ll be gone._ Once he had got this strange fixation out of his system, he would be free of all these volatile emotions; free to build something real with Cedric.

   Since he was so tired he could hardly even stand the thought of changing into his dressing gown, Harry just lay down on his bed without undressing. Almost instantly, he felt something hard painfully poking into his side. Digging around a while, he found that it was his mobile, lying dead in his pocket.

   Half asleep already, he at least had the presence to plug it into the charger that was augmented to run on magic instead of electricity before nodding off.

   Next thing he knew, a set of soft, moist lips was giving him a slow, tender kiss, and he reflexively pursed his own in greeting. It tied in so perfectly with his dream of staying over in Malfoy’s room after a particularly long study session that it took him some time to grasp that it was real.

   At once awake, Harry sat up in one swift motion that made his head swim, startling poor Cedric, who was kneeling next to his bed. Aghast, Harry chastised: “Cedric! Someone might see us!”

   The other boy smiled up at him in amusement, the corners of his mouth twitching as if he was fighting back a snicker. His brown hair caught the tentative rays of sunlight that had found their way into the high tower room.

   “Don’t worry, they’ve all gone down to breakfast already; it’s just you and me here,” he assured him, and rose from the floor to sit next to Harry. Placing a gentle hand on Harry’s right cheek, he gave him yet another sweet kiss.

   Relaxing somewhat, Harry gave him a kiss back before throwing off the quilt, which he had obviously wrapped himself in sometime during the night. “I need a shower,” he declared, jumping off the bed.

   Pulling some clean clothes out of his trunk at random, he hoped he did not smell. After all, he _had_ slept in his clothes.

   “I’m sorry I didn’t wait up for you,” Cedric said while openly watching him unclasp and take off his cloak. “I must have fallen asleep almost instantly after getting in …”

   Harry jerked involuntarily and hoped Cedric did not notice. So, he had not been awake long enough to notice that Harry had been extremely late … That worked out in his favour.

   “No worries, I was ready to collapse, myself—as you can see.” He indicated his wrinkled, slept-in clothes, successively teasing a laugh out of the other boy.

   Keeping up a constant stream of effortless, matey banter, they got ready for breakfast, now and then tickling the other or sharing an affectionate kiss. Cedric was quite obviously dawdling in order to make their time together last longer, and Harry could not help but call him out on it. “If you don’t pick up some speed soon I might have to reconsider your position as Chaser, you know.”

   “Ooooh, is that so?” Cedric wondered, and swiftly caught Harry in his arms, lifting him up and twirling him around. Both of them laughed mischievously.

   When Cedric finally put him down again, he kept his arms around the shorter boy and bent down, playfully capturing his mouth with his. It was so sudden that Harry’s stomach seemed to lift off and go its own way before landing in its rightful place again a few seconds later. Still in a state of bafflement, he at first did not register that Cedric’s lips moved away from his and traced a line along his jaw—not until he felt hot kisses on his neck, progressively moving downward towards his shoulder while a bold hand slid onto his buttocks …

   Uncomfortable and slightly scared of where things seemed to be going, Harry instinctively slithered out of Cedric’s grip and let out a loud, violent sneeze to cover the fact that he was rejecting the other boy’s advances.

   “Sorry,” he mumbled afterwards, self-consciously rubbing his nose with the sleeve of his blue-grey jumper. “I guess we’d better go eat before practice starts, anyway …”

   If Cedric had noticed that the sneeze was faked he did not show it. He merely nodded, smiling somewhat embarrassedly, and followed Harry when he left the room.

   His heart was beating at a breakneck pace. They had only been going out for two weeks, and Harry had not quite anticipated Cedric to want to take things to the next level this soon. It filled him with a sense of dread, because he had a feeling that he would not be able to reciprocate if the other boy insisted on getting more … sexual.

   With Ron in the same school, Harry was probably the only bent or bi bloke that was still a virgin … Or, maybe Malfoy was, too, since Ron had claimed to be unable to seduce him …

   But hang on … could it be possible that _Cedric_ had once got it on with Ron? It was hopeless to pick up every piece of gossip about Ron’s vast number of lovers, after all …

   Turning to his partner just as they walked into the Great Hall, he said, “Hey, Cedric, have you ever—”

   “Potter!”

   Harry rolled his eyes. “Here we go again …”

   The blonde kept calling on him every few minutes all through breakfast; it was as if they were back right at the start, when he had first been given the assignment to serve the Slytherin Princess. After what had transpired between them the previous night, this increased volume of orders was irritating Harry to such a degree that he could hardly relax enough to eat his own meal.

   Not that he was given much time for it, anyway …

   During a slightly longer break between runs to the Slytherin table, Harry checked his mobile to see if he had missed anything while it had been dead. Apparently there were three texts from Sirius and one from Luna. The latter only said _I think we probably shouldn’t see each other for a while_ , but the messages from his godfather made his eyebrows shoot up.

 

_Draco is here looking for you and would like to see you, if possible.  
He seems concerned. Is everything all right?_

_Harry, is anything wrong? You usually reply within the hour._

_Please ring me as soon as you see this._

Those were all from Wednesday, the day he had been lying unresponsive in bed.

   He blinked down at the screen in surprise, then looked up at the blonde across the hall. Malfoy had been looking for him as early as Wednesday? Even gone down to his godfather’s hut, asking him to contact Harry for him?

   _He seems concerned._

   Harry felt oddly touched by that, and the warm, fuzzy feeling it gave him even made him dismiss the rest of the blonde’s aggravating demands. What did it matter that Malfoy was being a dickhead when, deep down, he cared about him?

   He should probably text Sirius, though, before the Groundskeeper brought down the castle to make sure he was okay.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Humming a bittersweet, cautionary lullaby serenely to herself, Luna bent down and picked another long stalk of autumn-dry grass that looked just perfect. Careful not to bend it or otherwise mar it, she slid it into an oblong drawstring bag that was hanging from her left hip.

   She loved the meadow; the gentle wind that stirred the tall grass; the earthy smell of nature that enveloped her; the seemingly infinite variety of plant life that thrived all around her.

   For some reason, the lullaby had made frequent reappearances in her mind of late. It had been her favourite growing up—a story about a young witch who wanted too much and wound up with nothing—and she had made her mother sing it to her every night as she tucked her in. As a child, she had always rooted for the witch in the story, believing that the outcome would be happier for her if only the song was sung enough times.

   Footsteps alerted her to someone approaching, but that was not important; her eyes were already searching the swaying landscape around her for another perfect straw.

   “Hey, Luna,” Draco’s voice said on her right and slightly behind her. “What are you doing?”

   She turned around and greeted him with a mystifying, knowing smile. “There’s no need to act stupid, Draco; I know you have perfect eyesight.”

   She was pleased to see him miffed at that. He haughtily tossed his head before replying: “I should have rephrased that slightly. I of course meant, _why_ are you picking grass?”

   “I’m going to use it to weave a hat with earflaps,” she told him, because—really—it should be obvious. “Did you know that October is the worst Wrackspurt season? They will fly into every ear they can find and make your head all fuzzy if you’re not careful.” Seeing his appalled face, she continued with a bright smile: “Don’t worry, they hate straw; it makes them itchy. If you want, I can make one for you, too.”

   Draco checked his expression but squirmed a little before her frank gaze. “Er, I really appreciate the offer, Luna, but I think I’ll pass.”

   It was a shame, the way his pride interfered with basic safety precautions just because they might change people’s view of him, but there was nothing she could do for someone as stubborn as him.

   “Have you come out to look at the Umgubular Slashkilter?” she asked when they had stood in pleasurable silence for a while, spotting another beautiful straw specimen between them.

   The pale boy frowned at her. “The what?” he queried. “No, I am on my way to Sirius to have some tea. You are welcome to join me, of course.”

   Luna gave him an appreciative smile, but shook her head. There was no time to spare; it was already the third of October and she had not even begun to weave her hat yet.

   “I won’t be studying with you and Harry for a while, by the way,” she said while gently pulling the sighted stalk out of the soil. “Since people think I’ve broken his heart it wouldn’t be prudent for me to be around him until their focus has been shifted to something else. Sorry for not being able to hang out with you anymore.”

   Crouching and ponderingly examining the tall grass, Draco said, “That would be inadvisable under the circumstances, indeed.” Picking out a stalk that perfectly met Luna’s standards, as if he had been able to accurately analyse the qualities she sought from watching her pick only one or two straws, he added: “Why did you proclaim to have broken up with him in front of the whole school? My understanding was that you never dated, because of your—”

   “Asexuality, yes,” she confirmed, gratefully receiving the straw from him. “And Harry’s own preferences, of course.”

   Her companion got an odd, indefinable expression on his face at the mentioning of Harry’s preferences. Narrowing her eyes in suspicion, she silently wondered if something had happened between them. His guarded posture and carefully composed mien suggested that he knew perfectly well what those preferences were …

   _Interesting._

   It was happening faster than she had anticipated.

   “The attention needed to be taken off you,” she simply shrugged it away. “I thought it would be good to give you two some time to yourselves, as well.”

   Draco started. “What do you mean?” he demanded uncomfortably, his cheeks flushing slightly.

   Luna could not help but laugh at him; it was cute, how he thought he was such a good actor. Playfully bumping her fist on his shoulder, she teased: “Just because I don’t feel sexually attracted to anyone doesn’t mean I can’t sense the sexual tension between others, Draco.”

   When Draco paled beyond his usual pallor and looked at her in utter horror, she stood up with finality. “I think I have enough now,” she stated, and skipped off down the hill without looking back at him, grinning to herself in victorious amusement.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Luna knew. She _knew_.

   His hands tightened their grip around the big mug of steaming hot herbal tea as he struggled to retain his composure. _This is not good._

   Luna was like a volatile potion ingredient; there was no telling what would happen once you put her into the mix. She was completely unpredictable, had an exceptional view of the world for which could be found no equal, and to top it all off she could give him a run for his money when it came to cunning.

   He hated that she knew, because it was impossible to imagine what she might do with the information. It unsettled him.

   More importantly, she had been spot on.

   This whole thing was spinning out of hand. Why on Earth had he conceded to Potter last night? Was he absolutely off his trolley?!

   Even though he wracked his brain for some sort of explanation for his momentary insanity and for a way out of it, he could not come up with a single course of action. It was as if his brain had been hijacked by those Wrackspurts Luna always talked about, because there seemed to be nothing but candyfloss up there.

   When Potter arrived to pick him up after his Quidditch practice, Draco was feeling agitated and reluctant to be alone with him so soon. At this point, he was as volatile and unpredictable as Luna, but for entirely different reasons, and he was afraid of what he might do.

   “You ready to go?” the raven-haired boy wondered, shifting his feet somewhat restlessly in the doorway. His piercing, green eyes were looking straight at him, sending eerie shivers through him.

   Panic rising like a cold tide inside of him, Draco was desperately trying to think of a reason to stay in the hut for a while longer—just a little while longer …

   “Why don’t you boys stay for lunch?” Remus suggested pleasantly. He had been preparing an autumn salad with mushrooms and winter squash in the kitchen area while Draco and Sirius had been talking mutedly at the table.

   By the door, Potter started to reply: “Thanks, but I don’t think—”

   Latching on to the proposal, Draco simultaneously exclaimed: “That is a wonderful idea!”

   Potter gave him an incredulous glare, but Sirius and Remus were pleased so he did not oppose himself. Instead, he took the free seat on Draco’s right, adopting a rather stiff posture. He seemed nervous and uncomfortable about spending time with the blonde in the company of his godfather and his partner, probably unsure of how to act.

   Draco was nervous, too; he did not want to make any wrong move that might betray the change in their relationship—if one could even call it that. For what were they to each other—really? They could hardly be said to be enemies anymore, not really, but they were not mates, either. Were they even acquaintances when it came right down to it?

   Maybe there was no name for two people who had once been archenemies, then moved on to being master and servant—followed by a sort of reluctant respect for one another—and who now snogged on impulse.

   Regardless, he hid behind the old, comparatively safe mask of the demanding, arrogant master as a way to defend himself from the ever stronger pull between Potter and him. It was clear that the raven-haired boy was embarrassed about being bossed around in front of family, but Draco simply could not help it.

   Forcing Potter to tend to him created a convenient shield since the other boy’s frustration and irritation ensured that the tension between them would remain antagonistic rather than turn sexual.

   Sirius and Remus were somewhat nonplussed by Draco’s unaffected way of dealing out orders and Potter’s attentive service. He did not blame them; neither of them had witnessed this dynamic of theirs before, so it must look bizarre from their point of view.

   When Draco at one point insisted on Potter calling him ‘Master,’ Remus even interjected: “It is hardly necessary to take it that far, Draco, is it?”

   “I should think that it is my prerogative to determine how my servant should refer to me,” was all Draco supplied in reply, and that silenced the older man.

   On their way back to the castle, he tried to maintain a swift pace to discourage conversation, but that plan proved disappointingly unfruitful. Potter kept up a constant stream of demands, the most frequent one being an explanation for the way Draco was treating him.

   “I do not owe you any explanations,” he drawled, keeping his chin high and his eyes in front.

   They were coming down into a swale between the grassy hills, and once they reached the bottom and were completely out of view from anyone beyond the hills, Potter forced him to a stop. With a fierce expression on his face, he grabbed onto Draco’s shirt collar and used it to pull his face down to his shorter level, pressing their lips together in a hard kiss.

   Taken aback, Draco needed a moment to react. The raven-haired boy did not let that deter him, though, and soon he had coaxed Draco into opening his mouth. A million tiny creatures seemed to be fluttering about in his chest and abdomen, spreading a pleasant warmth that chased away the chilly autumn air.

   Pulse increasing in excitement, he enveloped the shorter boy in his arms and pulled him closer, enthusiastically catching his lower lip between his teeth and nibbling on it. That teased a delighted moan from Potter that was so sexy Draco lost all inhibitions.

   No longer able to think straight, he plunged heedlessly into the magnetising, arousing kiss, letting out a sated sigh as he enjoyed Potter’s hot breath on his skin and the lingering taste of pumpkin juice and butternut squash on his tongue—

   As suddenly as he had initiated the snogging, Potter weaselled his way out of Draco’s grasp and walked off towards the school.

   Glaring after him, Draco yelled, “Hey! You can’t just stop like that!”

   Without so much as turning around, the raven-haired tease called back: “Now we’re even.”

   Fuming, Draco just stood there in the swale for a good minute before stalking up the hill after him. The nerve—! Getting him all hot and bothered and then stopping when it was just getting good …

   He was tetchy all day after that, feeling cruelly cheated and blaming it on anyone unfortunate enough to cross his path. What was worse was that Potter’s presence built up an immense sexual frustration in him—a frustration that he seemed to be sharing with the raven-haired bastard himself, for dangerous sparks flew between them every time their eyes met.

   If they had not been surrounded by Slytherins, theirs would have been a clash of unprecedented proportions …

   In the late afternoon, Draco was fed up with his obnoxious housemates and declared that he was going to the art studio. Miles had been beating him at Wizard’s Chess again and Auriola had been a right tart, trying to fawn her way into his favour with cleavage and excessive eyelash batting.

   “Potter, fetch my bag,” he ordered, then impatiently waited for his servant to return so they could leave the Slytherin Dungeon already.

   A couple of Hufflepuff fifth-years and Duncan Inglebee, one of the Ravenclaw Beaters, were evidently spending their Saturday afternoon working on their respective projects.

   Draco passed them all without honouring them with a single glance.

   Truth be told, he was relieved by their presence and secretly hoped they would stay all evening. With the tension and frustration continuously building up to a dangerous crescendo within him, he needed to paint; losing himself in his art had always been an outlet for him.

   But with Potter there … if they were left alone …

   Yet, he could not bring himself to send the Gryffindor away. He was like a magnet, stuck in the pull of its polarising counterpart, completely at its mercy.

   Unfortunately, the other students left shortly before dinner would be served. While they had been in the room, things had been pretty straightforward; Draco had been working on the finishing touches on his painting and Potter had cleaned his brushes, supplied him with more oil paint when asked to. But as soon as they left, the tension began to rise again.

   Soon, Draco found his eyes straying to the raven-haired boy more often than he would like to admit, and his body shivered and burned every time those fiery emerald eyes looked back at him. How could emeralds crackle and blaze like fire?

   More than once, he found that his hand had come to a stop, the brush tip hanging unused in the air. The other boy’s slight yet masculine frame, strong, capable arms and slightly parted lips were taking up all the space in his mind, stubbornly pushing everything else out to the point where conscious thought was no longer possible.

   Unable to take it for a single second longer, Draco hastily stood up and claimed to need some tools from one of the cupboards that made up the right-hand side of the back of the big studio and was accessed through a short, narrow passageway. In there, he would be out of Potter’s sight.

   Finally away from the temptation, he sighed and let his head hang low, tiredly rubbing his eyes with his right hand.

   Too much. It was all too much. His body was yearning for Potter—even one touch—like a man lost in the desert would yearn for water, and he could not stand it. Why did it have to be Potter?!

   A pair of strong arms slid in under his own and closed around his midsection, causing a tentative, anticipatory sigh to escape him. It did not scare him, did not even surprise him, and belatedly he realised that he had been expecting them, longed to feel them around him again. Elated, he felt Potter’s hands slowly, sensuously move up his flat stomach, making his skin tingle and leaving behind goose bumps.

   He drew a trembling breath as he felt hot lips on his nape, instantly aroused. His breathing grew deeper, huskier for every sensual kiss placed on his quavering skin, for every inch those seductive hands conquered on their way up his chest. Then, Potter used the tip of his tongue to trace the line of his earlobe at the same time as his fingers slid over his erect nipples—

   —and Draco spun around in his grip, struck by a lust so desperate he could not deny it any longer, and grabbed the sides of Potter’s head, joining their lips. Not caring if he was being too rough, he pressed the raven-haired boy up against the closest cupboard and forced his tongue deep into his mouth.

   His entire body was aching, burning, abuzz with nervous energy; he just had to have him, had to thrust deep inside of him with more than just his tongue before he imploded under the pressure of his desire.

   Potter only needed a heartbeat to catch up with him, matching Draco’s heat as he tightened his grip around his back and pressed their bodies so close together that Potter must be feeling his pounding erection against his lower abdomen. He sure as Hell felt Potter’s erection against his inner thigh, anyway, and it excited him in a way that nothing else had ever managed to excite him before.

   Letting go of the raven-haired boy’s head, he lowered his hands to the hem of his jumper and started to pull it up, moaning wantonly when he felt Potter’s hot skin beneath his eager fingers.

   “Draco, you still in here?” Miles’s voice suddenly called from another part of the studio, making them pull apart in terror.

   For a moment, they stared at each other in panic, neither of them coming up with a valid reason for them to be back there. But then Potter said, “I don’t even know what linseed oil looks like, so how can you expect me to fetch you some?” His voice was loud enough to carry beyond the cupboards and impressively calm and galled, as if he was responding to an accusation.

   Catching on, Draco collected himself and replied, “Oh, for Salazar’s sake, are you really good for nothing, Potter?” He was surprised at how easily he stepped into the role of impatient superior under these dire circumstances. For good measure, he added: “Get out of my way, I will find it myself!”

   To uphold their illusion, he slammed open the door to the cupboard that held all the mediums and swiftly rummaged through it after a bottle of linseed oil.

   “Hard at work as ever, I see,” Miles commented behind him, evidently having reached them.

   For a second, Draco thought his boner had not quite been killed yet and that that was what his friend was poking fun at, so he worriedly looked down at himself. Silently letting out a sigh of relief to himself when he had made sure that he was indeed as flaccid as he felt, he snatched up the bottle he had been searching for and straightened up.

   Since Miles was only 5’6”, Draco had to look down to meet his gaze. Annoyed, he grunted, “What do you want?”

   Being interrupted like that was something he did not appreciate; his sexual frustration was reaching immeasurable levels, and if he did not get some release soon he would explode.

   The mate handed him a letter that was sealed with the Malfoy crest.

   Frowning, Draco ripped it open and read it. As he had feared, his mother was requesting his immediate presence. Even though he did not much care for the woman, he had never been able to refuse her wishes. She was his mother.

   “I’m sorry, but I am apparently needed at the Manor,” he said with his jaw hard-set. “I won’t be able to help with your Arithmancy essay, Potter, so please do your best not to fail. An Acceptable will be quite fine for this once.”

   If he was not mistaken, Potter’s spirits sank when he said he had to go.

   “No worries, I can help him,” Miles offered with his usual indifference.

   “Really?” Potter wondered disbelievingly. “Er, thanks, Bletchley.”

   Miles actually cracked a wry smile at the Gryffindor’s obvious discomfiture. “Please, it’s about time you call me ‘Miles,’ don’t you think?” he stated, confirming that Potter indeed had grown on him in the past month.

   Confident that he was leaving Potter in capable hands, Draco excused himself and left to prepare for his unexpected trip.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After almost being caught in such a delicate situation, Harry decided to take certain measures to ensure that their extracurricular activities remained secret. He was convinced that Malfoy would not want to continue if there was a risk of them being found out, and he definitely did not want to stop. Not until he had successfully got this out of his system.

   Although, in a way, he was grateful for the interruption, because if Miles had not showed up when he did …

   Even though he had not cleared passage with The Prick, he snuck up to the fireplace designated for public transport and used it to travel to his family home in Surrey. Since his father always locked himself in his den to work on his current novel every opportunity he got, Harry could safely steal up to his parents’ bedroom without being seen.

   Inside, he went straight to the cupboard in the corner next to the en suite bathroom and dug out a chest that held old family heirlooms that were never used anymore.

   From within, he withdrew his father’s Invisibility Cloak.

   Satisfied, he returned to Hogwarts with it safely tucked away inside his jumper. Back in his room in Gryffindor Tower, he made room in the bottom of his trunk and was just about to shove the Cloak into the new cavity when Cedric came in from the corridor.

   “Hey, handsome,” he said, joining him with a curious look on his naturally rosy face. “What are you doing?”

   With Cedric right there, he could not very well claim that it was nothing. Even though he for some reason did not want his partner to know about the Cloak, he felt compelled to show it to him now. He was already hiding too many things as it was. Therefore, he demonstrated it and told him where he had got it.

   Cedric let the cool, silky, almost liquid fabric glide between his fingers in fascination, watching as parts of him vanished and reappeared. “Handy,” he commented, giving Harry a mischievous grin and a long, knowing look.

   Luckily, Dean entered the room at that moment, so Harry did not have to force out some false excitement. Instead, he locked the Cloak in his trunk and threw himself on his bed, only half listening as Dean complained about Ginny and her latest impulses. Cedric could handle that.

   Lying on his back, he pulled out his mobile to text Luna. He had neither seen nor spoken to her since Thursday and it was making him feel lonely.

 

_I miss you._

_Can’t we go to the lake together or something?_

_I think it’s better if we don’t see each other for a while,_

_till everything’s died down._

_Wouldn’t be good if people saw us together and started_

_wondering why we’re not ‘broken up,’ right?_

_I guess …_

_I just miss you._

_I miss you, too._

_At least we can talk like this._

That was true, of course. No matter what happened, no matter the distance between them, they would always have ways to communicate with one another. Nothing could take their friendship away from them. They would always find ways to be together, even if it could not be in person.

   Harry felt comforted by that thought.

 

_How are things with you and Draco now?_

He stared up at the screen, not certain what he should reply to that. After a moment’s hesitation, he finally typed:

 

_What do you mean?_

_You don’t need to pretend with me._

_I’ve seen you pulled towards each other like_

_Nargles to new shoes._

Harry’s heart began to pound with dread in his chest. If she could see how drawn they were to each other, someone else might eventually notice, as well. They needed to be much more careful from now on.

   At first, he was about to feign confusion and claim that Luna had just been imagining things—that there was nothing going on between him and Malfoy. His instincts were telling him to keep this quiet to the point of not telling anyone at all for fear of losing the tiny sliver of hope that had opened up for him.

   Besides, those moments with Malfoy were his and his alone; he did not want to share them with anyone.

   On the other hand, having someone to confide in might be nice for a change … And if there was anyone he could trust with his innermost secrets, it was Luna.

 

_We’ve kissed_

_a few times._

_Translation: snogged your arses off._

_Shut up._

_;P_

On second thought, maybe he should have just kept it to himself, anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco wound up spending the night at the Manor on his mother’s request, since it was her wish for them to celebrate Mass together. Although he hated church and had always felt unsettled and disconcerted in ‘the house of God,’ as the devout referred to it, he had never had the heart to tell his mother that.

   Ever since a very young age, he had been forced to accompany her to Mass every Sunday morning, listening to the sermons and taking the sacrament, praying with her and giving regular confessions. On the inside, he had always felt a strong need to run away from it all, but Malfoys did not run; Malfoys stayed in control of their emotions and showed the world a strong, unaffected front.

   Nothing was supposed to faze a Malfoy.

   But on the inside, he was still squirming every time he had to set his foot inside that church. It was as if he could not breathe in there, as if there was an immense pressure trying to force him to submit. To his mother’s will, to her faith, to the church—to God.

   He _hated_ it.

   But she was his mother, and family was everything. Right?

   There had been no explanation offered him about the origin of her faith. She had, after all, grown up in one of the oldest and most distinguished pure-blood families in England and could not have come into contact with the Catholic Church during that time. Neither should she have come into contact with it once she married into the Malfoy family. As far as he knew, there were no other religious people on either side of his family tree.

   Since he was a child, he had suspected that something had happened to his mother—something so traumatic that she turned to God out of sheer desperation because nothing else could give her the comfort that she sought. It seemed like the only plausible explanation for her piety.

   Because of that conviction, Draco had never been able to deny his mother anything. She could be a right pain in the arse—most often was, actually—but deep down she was suffering, he was sure of it.

   Still, enough was enough; he had done his duty and was ready to return to his own life. He instructed the house elves to forward his things to Hogwarts, then went to say goodbye to his mother. “See you in three weeks for the half-term break,” he said coolly, pulling his cloak on.

   Evidently reluctant to let him go, his mother snatched his left arm to her. “You don’t have to go back there,” she protested with something like desolation in her voice. “You were never supposed to go to that horrible school, anyway.”

   Sighing in exasperation, Draco met her eyes straightforwardly. “Of course I am supposed to go to ‘that horrible school’—it’s the best wizarding school in the world, and nothing less would befit a Malfoy.”

   He made another attempt to leave, but she would not let go of his arm. Instead, she dug her nails into him so hard that he could feel them through the fabric of both robes and cloak. “What is your father up to over there?” she demanded. “Why does he never come home? Could he really be so busy that he doesn’t even have time to visit his own wife _once_?”

   _Here we go again._ “I don’t know,” he said, feeling his old indignation awakening as they were repeating ancient patterns.

   “But you must know!” she insisted mercilessly. “That school is not big enough for you to never run into each other, so don’t play dim with me, boy!”

   Determined not to let her refusal to say his name affect him—not ever again—Draco violently pulled his arm free of her cold grasp. “Do you think we sit down to cute little family dinners in the evenings?” he spat, fuming with affront. “I do not see my father unless it is absolutely necessary, and I am certainly not interested in whatever he chooses to waste his days away with. Now, let me go ba—”

   He was interrupted by the _whoosh_ of green flames erupting from the fireplace and the bubbly, pastel-coloured, high-heeled five-foot-three visage of Aunt Bella commanded the attention of the room. Spotting him right next to the fireplace, she lit up and bustled towards him with her arms outstretched. “Draco, my favourite nephew! Come give your auntie a hug!”

   Draco could not have been happier to see her if she had come bearing a basket containing the solutions to all his troubles, neatly packaged for his pleasure. “Bella!” he exclaimed loudly, pulling his tiny aunt into his arms so he could whisper in her ear: “Please save me.”

   There was no need to say more; Bellatrix Lestrange knew exactly what her sister could be like when she was left alone for too long. She was pretty much the opposite of the cold, unloving, unapproachable Narcissa Malfoy; pleasant, fun-loving, and caring enough for an entire army of children. Sadly, she could not have any of her own, so she had devoted her life to the paediatric ward at St Mungo’s—and doting on her niece and nephew, of course.

   “Cissy, come now,” she said to her sister, “let the boy go to school; he needs his education.” And with an ease that Draco truly admired but could never dream of achieving himself, she put an arm around his mother’s shoulders and began to steer her towards the archway. “Let’s make pumpkin pie, shall we?”

   Letting out his pent up breath, Draco grabbed a handful of Floo powder and stepped into the enormous fireplace. Throwing it down with an elegant flick of his hand, he said, “Hogwarts!”

 

 

* * *

 

 

He was perfectly aware that things were going to be different for some time due to Luna’s impulsive announcement, but he had not expected this.

   When they walked into Potions on Monday morning, Luna and Goyle were not at their table in front of Malfoy and Harry’s; instead, they were met by Zabini and Flint. Harry did not know Zabini that well, but if he was not mistaken the dark-skinned boy was unusually smug about something.

   “What is the meaning of this?” Malfoy demanded, and his shoulders stiffened noticeably as his eyes fell on the slightly taller boy. “Those are not your seats.”

   “No, but Luna asked us to switch with her and Goyle to not make things harder on Potter,” Zabini stated.

   Harry flinched. Luna had said that?

   He turned around and looked down at the back table where Luna seemed to be telling Goyle a funny anecdote, because the lumbering boy was laughing so loudly that his characteristic braying even reached Harry up front. They seemed awfully comfortable back there, and he could not help but feel a bit excluded.

   “See! That is exactly what I’m talking about!” he heard Zabini proclaim, and when he turned back to the people assembled around him, he saw that the dark-skinned boy was pointing at him.

   “I don’t give a dragon’s arse if Potter is ‘uncomfortable’ or even suicidal, you are _not_ sitting anywhere near me!” Malfoy spat out, and his grey eyes were wild and warning against challenging him further, but at the same time there was a mad glint in them that seemed to dare his mate to try him. Like he was picking a fight, _wanted_ a fight.

   Harry had never seen him like that; the blonde Slytherin Princess never displayed such raw emotions. Had they had a falling out or something?

   Zabini seemed to consider his options for a few long seconds, then conceded defeat and told Flint to follow.

   Watching them go, Harry said, “Wasn’t that a bit overkill?”

   The blonde swirled on him with that dangerous, on-the-edge look in his silver eyes. “Speak when spoken to, Potter, if you know what is best for you,” he hissed, looking every part the snake of his house.

   Muttering an apology, Harry decided it was best to leave him be.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Angel was feeling excited as she walked to the library together with her brother after Monday’s dinner. She would finally get to study with him and Draco again, something that she had been looking forward to for some time. It always made her happy when Harry wanted to be with her.

   She was also happy about the fact that Harry seemed more at ease again. When he had just been lying in his bed and had not even responded to her efforts to reach him, she had been scared for him. It was not like him to withdraw himself from people like that.

   Now he seemed more like himself again, maybe even a little merrier than unusual, and that was a great relief. She also believed that Draco had—so far, at least—heeded her plea.

   Harry had always been sensitive to other people’s perception of him and not been able to hold back if he was being mistreated. He would always fight back, even when it was obvious that nothing good would come of it.

   She was convinced that Draco was a good guy, though, deep down. He acted cool and aloof, but it all just looked so … forced. There was clearly more beneath the surface.

   Getting help from Harry with her Transfiguration and Charms homework was pleasantly familiar, as if they were back home again. Their table was located in a remote part of the library that rarely saw any visitors, giving the setting an intimate atmosphere.

   It was almost cosy.

   She loved the peace of the library; the constant, invasive noises people made were often her undoing, casting her into a black pit of anxiety and terror, so finding quiet spots was integral to her wellbeing. Being able to sit in companionable silence with people she liked was a blessing. The only sounds were those of quills eagerly scribbling on crisp parchment, pages turned in books, and the faint tapping of Harry’s foot as he kept the beat of the music he was listening to.

   “Would you mind?” Draco asked after a while, his grey eyes boring into Harry. “I’m trying to uphold a certain standard when it comes to my penmanship, but your incessant jerking is shaking the table.”

   Harry merely shrugged. “I’m sure you can manage.”

   And then there were the times her dear brother provoked adverse behaviour in others.

   The blonde put down his quill with an audible _rap_. “Perhaps you would like losing those legs for a—”

   “Wow, those are really beautiful flowers, Draco!” Angel cut in, leaning in over the table to get a closer look at a set of illustrations that were lying to the right of the parchment he had been writing on. “Did you draw them?”

   Draco completely lost his thread and blinked down at her with his mouth half-agape for so long she started to wonder if she had broken him. Harry, on the other hand, snorted in amusement but swiftly changed it to a cough when the blonde swirled around towards him again.

   Quickly, she diverted the attention back to the illustrations. “You are really good at drawing, aren’t you?”

   He shifted uncomfortably in his seat. “Yes, I guess I have a certain talent …”

   “Oh, yes, you really do! I wish I could draw like that … Do you think you could teach me?”

   She gave him a beatific and expectant smile.

   The blonde stared at her as if she had suggested he jump off a building or something. “Excuse me, _teach_ you?” That seemed to be an unthinkable proposal to his mind, for he just shook his head and said nothing more of it. But at least he forgot to badger Harry.

   They worked in familiar silence once more, until Draco yet again seemed unable to keep quiet any longer. “What’s that string you always have in your ear?” he wondered, frowning at Harry.

   Her brother met his steely gaze. “These are headphones,” he explained patiently. “They plug into this—” He held up his MP3-player so the blonde could see it properly. “—and you can listen to music. It helps me stay focused when I study. Wanna have a listen?”

   He offered Draco the earphone he was not using himself.

   Apprehensively, the Slytherin took it between his thumb and forefinger and studied it for a few seconds before carefully putting it in his ear. Almost immediately, he jumped in his seat and tried to pull it back out. “What _is_ this?!” he demanded of Harry in utter shock.

   His reaction fascinated Angel.

   “Iron Maiden,” Harry replied.

   “Iron …? Well, I see why they chose that name for themselves—this noise is pure torture!” Draco exclaimed disgustedly.

   “I have other stuff on here, too, hang on …” Harry searched through the playlist on the MP3-player and presumably picked something less excitable. “This is The Cure,” he told the blonde, sounding nervous and embarrassed. “I’ve pretty much inherited our parents’ taste in music …”

   The blonde appeared to consider it for a while. “Hmm. It’s passable, I guess,” he muttered, but he kept the earphone in, and by the end of their study session he even nodded along with the music now and then; slowly and tentatively, as if he was trying out the act of digging music.

   Angel noticed her brother smiling at Draco when he must have thought no-one was looking. It was a sort of furtive smile, and it lit up his entire face. That surprised and confused her a little, because that was the kind of smile that their father would give their mother; the kind of smile that Uncle Sirius would give Uncle Remus …

   She would have to keep a closer watch on them to make sure that Draco did not hurt her brother. Deep down, she hoped he would not, because she had meant what she said to him:

   She did not want to dislike him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Everyday school life had never been less dull or had more of an alluring appeal than it now had to Harry. Knowing that Malfoy was all right with them snogging when the occasion arose made class so much more endurable—even exciting.

   They still sat with their legs secretly touching, and he was positive that the blonde could feel the electrical currents that were flowing between their bodies. The way he barked out orders and constantly complained about Harry’s ‘sloppiness’ was a rather clear indicator of that.

   Between fourth and fifth period, the entire student body appeared to be using the grand staircase at the same time, resulting in somewhat of a traffic congestion on the fourth floor landing. The blonde did not seem to take that very well; his face reddened with indignation, as if people had decided to stop up the stairs solely to annoy him.

   “Oh, for Christ’s sake!” he exclaimed, and looked as though he was about to elbow his way through the throng. “Out of my way!”

   Harry grabbed his arm before he could hurt himself. “Let’s take a different route instead,” he suggested, nodding towards the fourth floor corridor. There were backstairs to every floor, every tower, but most people completely forgot about their existence, meaning they should be able to descend unhindered.

   Malfoy only hesitated for a second or two before acceding and stalking off up the corridor. Harry had to run to keep up with him.

   On the stairs down, he walked right behind the blonde, steadily winding downwards. Now and then, a whiff of his cologne wafted up to Harry, making his blood run hot and his mind spin with graphic images.

   He had no idea how a mere scent could affect him so fatally, but he was honestly going crazy behind Malfoy. The sweet-and-tangy cologne mixing with the blonde’s own musk was so potent that Harry could practically feel the warmth of his body against his and taste the skin of his nape anew. He was convinced that if Malfoy so much as breathed on him now, he would come undone.

   As soon as they came out on the first floor, in a narrow side-corridor off the library, Harry impulsively pulled the blonde to him and kissed him, happily drowning in his wonderful, masculine scent.

   “Your cologne drives me nuts,” he accused, pinning Malfoy to the wall and hungrily shoving his tongue into his mouth, moaning approvingly when the other boy immediately clasped him in a tight embrace.

   “Oh, yeah?” Malfoy breathed between kisses. “Well, _you_ make _me_ nuts.”

   As if to emphasise what he had just said, he pulled Harry’s shirt out of his trousers and let his hands travel up Harry’s back under the fabric.

   They were once again traversing dangerous waters. Harry trembled at the hot touch of the blonde’s long, slender fingers, feeling its repercussions running straight down to his crotch, making him ache with a desperate desire to be touched there, as well. That scared him somewhat—that his body was acting on its own, potentially taking on more than he was ready to handle.

   But that cologne … it was absolutely going to his head …

   Chattering and giggling female voices reached them from the staircase they had come from; at any moment, the door might be flung open, revealing them to whoever was on the other side.

   For a second, panic rose in him—until he remembered the Invisibility Cloak. Acting swiftly, he stooped down and tore open his bag, rummaging around in it.

   “What are you doing?!” Malfoy hissed at him, trying to pull him back up on his feet. “We need to get out of here _now_!”

   There was no way they would make it out of the corridor before those girls exited the stairwell, and even though it was not suspicious per se for them to be passing through there, it was too big of a risk to plant even the tiniest seed of suspicion.

   Grabbing the cool Cloak, he jerked it out of the bag in one liquid motion.

   He saw Malfoy’s eyes widen in astonishment when he realised what he was seeing. With no time to explain, Harry hurriedly covered them in the Cloak and snatched their bags off the floor right before the door to the stairwell opened and three third-year Hufflepuff girls emerged. Neither he nor Malfoy dared to breathe while the group passed them in the narrow space.

   It was not until the girls had long turned the corner and disappeared into the main corridor that they exhaled and allowed themselves to relax.

   Malfoy raised a hand and carefully touched the liquid, effervescent fabric enveloping them. Fascinated and visibly impressed, he said, “You have an Invisibility Cloak?”

   Embarrassed, Harry collected the Cloak, rolled it up, and stuffed it back into his bag again. “It’s my father’s. I kinda … borrowed it …”

   The blonde got the point. “Ah. Well, I am glad you did. Sometimes you actually take good initiatives, Potter.”

   He began to walk towards the mouth of the corridor, and Harry reluctantly followed, pouting slightly. “Why do I feel like you’ve just given me an insult?” he muttered.

   “Probably because you’re a masochist,” Malfoy stated haughtily, but there was a distinct note of mirth in his voice, so Harry just shook his head with a resigned, lopsided grin.

   They joined up with Goyle, Miles, and Parkinson outside the Alchemy classroom in the Dungeons, Harry mindful to stay a few feet away from them in accordance with his servanthood. Apparently, they were in the middle of an animated discussion about the upcoming Hogsmeade weekend. Belatedly, Harry realised that it was _this_ weekend. It had completely slipped his mind, what with everything else going on.

   The first Hogsmeade weekend of the year was always a big deal since people had begun to feel trapped within the castle by now. Harry, on the other hand, would be perfectly fine staying in while everyone else went out, if a certain blonde stayed back, as well …

   “You can’t possibly be serious about going to Tomes and Scrolls first!” Parkinson was exclaiming, giving Miles a wide-eyed, appalled look.

   The indifferent blonde merely shrugged at her, as if he could not even muster enough interest to give her a proper reaction. “I’m out of reading material,” he claimed.

   “What, you don’t spend enough time in the library?!”

   Miles snorted. “I’ve read everything worth reading in the library already—unless you find me a way into the Restricted Section …”

   Goyle let out an endearing, braying laugh and slapped Miles on the shoulder, but Parkinson was not amused. “But you have to make sure to take in the important places first so you’re sure you won’t miss out!” she objected violently. “First you go to Gladrag’s, then to Honeydukes so you have something to snack on while you’re at the hairdressing salon, then—”

   Rolling his eyes, Miles interrupted: “That may be the perfect route for you, but I happen to have slightly more refined tastes, thank you very much.”

   Goyle nodded his approval of this statement.

   Getting pink-faced with annoyance, Parkinson spotted Malfoy at the edge of their circle and changed her point of attack. “Draco! _You_ appreciate the true order of things; tell them that there is a system to follow here!”

   Tossing his head arrogantly, Malfoy declared: “I am doing no such thing.”

   “But you will at least take me to Madam Puddifoot’s, won’t you?” she pressed, starting to sound desperate now.

   “Ha! As if!”

   Rounding on Miles again, she practically screeched: “Miles, you won’t let me down, will you? Take me to Madam Puddifoot’s—please!”

   “Not even if you were the last person on the planet, Pansy,” Miles said. “No offense; I just don’t have time to sit around in teashops. Why don’t you take Auriola?”

   “To a place for couples? Are you mental?” she wondered, beside herself with indignation.

   Goyle grunted as if to say that Miles was indeed mental to suggest that.

   Harry watched the exchange in silence until his curiosity got the better of him. “You know, I’ve been wondering … why does Goyle never speak?” he asked them in earnest, effectively shutting them up and earning a round of baffled stares. He therefore hurried to add: “No offense, Goyle.”

   The gentle giant gave him a reassuring smile; none taken.

   “It is so simple I would have thought even you grasped it,” Malfoy said in reply. “He can’t.”

   “Why?” Harry insisted, since Goyle did not have any problem with him investigating the issue.

   Malfoy rolled his eyes. “Well, d’uh—he can’t talk, so one can’t exactly ask him, can one? Seriously, Potter …”

   “But he can write, can’t he? So why have you never thought to ask him and have him answer that way?”

   The blonde jerked as if Harry had just slapped him in the face. He looked positively pissed off, and that made Harry shrink away somewhat. _Oops …_ He had not meant to call him out as dim in front of his mates, but that was basically what he had just done.

   He was not going to live this one down for some time …

   Unfazed by what was playing out around him, Goyle pulled out a piece of parchment and a self-inking quill from his robes pocket and scribbled down something on it. Then he handed it over to Harry, who read it out loud for everyone to hear: “Birth defect. Deformed tongue.”

   Everyone was a bit appalled at that, Malfoy most visibly so since he had little to no filter when it came to such things, but Goyle himself only shrugged as if to say ‘it is what it is.’

   As Professor Crouch arrived to let them into the classroom, Zabini showed up, and his face was a cornucopia of emotions; regret, desperation, anxiety, urgency, remorse … It was amazing how so many complex expressions could melt together into one mien.

   “Drake, please,” he said, evidently not caring about the stares he was attracting, “I’m really sorry and I just want you to listen—for _one_ minute!”

   Without taking the slightest notice of his housemate, Malfoy walked past him with his gaze pointedly directed forwards. Even though Harry was bewildered by the scene and felt a strange impulse to ask if Zabini was okay, he had no choice but to follow the blonde into the classroom.

   Once he had sat down next to Malfoy, he could not help but ask him: “What is up with you and Zabini?”

   It was clear that something was up, and Harry felt a need to learn why Malfoy was suddenly so loath to associate with his—former?—best friend so that he could figure out how to help him. It was a puzzling sensation, and he did not quite understand it. He just knew that something was wrong and that he wished to make things better for the blonde.

   The Slytherin himself did not seem to appreciate his concern, though, for he turned a murderous glare on Harry. “Mind your place, slave,” he growled between gritted teeth, obviously struggling to keep himself in check.

   Out of fear of landing himself on the blonde’s bad side, Harry shut up and silently vowed not to bring it up again; it was clearly a touchy subject. If Malfoy wanted to confide in him—which was highly unlikely, given their history—he would do so once he was ready.

   After the lesson, Hermione came up to him while he was cleaning their table. She studied him with her usual worried wrinkle between her brows, then glanced at Malfoy on his left. “Do you have a minute?” she wondered.

   He automatically turned to Malfoy. Even though he hated it, he had become so accustomed to playing the servant that he sought permission from his ‘master’ without so much as a second thought.

   The blonde let out an annoyed sigh and rose from his seat. “All right, you get five minutes; I need to use the bathroom, anyway.”

   When he had left the room, Hermione put a hand on his to stay it and force him to shift his attention from the table to her. “How are you?” she asked, her brown eyes dark with worry.

   “I’m very well, thank you,” he said, feeling rather uncomfortable under her intense stare.

   Frown deepening to a full-on scowl, she pressed: “Are you really? You seem … different. Resigned, somehow, as if you’ve given up—and I have never known you to give up. Ever. So what does he have on you?”

   Harry blinked at her incredulously. “What? He doesn’t ‘have anything on me!’”

   “No? Then how come you just let him treat you like this? How come you’re not fighting back anymore? He’s coercing you somehow, isn’t he? He and his father both. They’re not threatening to expel you again, are they?”

   “Hermione, Hermione—listen to me!” he exclaimed when she would not stop, knowing full well how easily her imagination could run away with her. “I’m fine, all right? Look at me—I’m not being coerced, I’m not being threatened, I’m not in any way feeling bad. I’m fine. I’m …”

   Inevitably, his mind wandered to that narrow side-corridor before the lesson. Malfoy’s warm hands on the bare skin of his back, his strong arms holding him in a tight grip, his soft lips and hot, wet tongue practically eating him up …

   A shiver of pleasure went through him and an impish smile came to his lips. “I’m brilliant,” he told Hermione. “I’ve gotta go, though, or I’ll be late for Charms. See you tonight?”

   “Yeah, okay,” she said, watching him go with a confused expression on her face.

   During Charms, Malfoy seemed to calm down and return to his usual reserved self. That was a relief, because Harry had been dreading having to escort him to his Quidditch practice when he was in such a foul and explosive mood. He was not exactly chatty when they walked down to the pitch to prepare, but he at least was not being a bully.

   Since Malfoy was the Captain of the Slytherin team, he liked to go straight to the pitch after classes ended on Tuesdays to prepare it for practice. Since Harry had become his servant, however, he stood on the side-line and watched with a scrutinising eye as Harry made the preparations.

   He had become used to that by now, so he was expecting to carry the equipment out onto the field as usual, but before they had even reached the storage cupboard, Malfoy grabbed his arm and pulled him to him. Stunned, Harry felt those lovely, sexy lips on his again, but sweeter this time. The blonde was tentative, almost hesitant, as if he was doing this for the first time.

   And, in a way, that was true. This was the first time he had initiated a kiss between them, the first time he had actually shown that he wanted this—whatever this was. Perhaps he had now fully accepted this strange desire that they shared.

   _You make me nuts._

   When Malfoy broke the kiss, he looked Harry deep into the eyes, sending shivers of arousal through his body thanks to that intense, piercing silver gaze. “You will accompany me to Hogsmeade on Saturday and carry my shopping for me,” he ordered, and when Harry instantly nodded his assent, he let go of him and continued on towards the storage cupboard.

   Weak in the knees after that hot encounter, Harry could not immediately follow.

   After a few yards, the blonde stopped and turned back to meet his gaze anew. Grinning mischievously, he added: “Bring the Cloak.”

   Harry’s heart did a somersault in his chest and proceeded to flutter wildly.

   Malfoy wanted him to bring the Cloak to Hogsmeade. So they could safely spend time together, away from prying eyes. Like … a date?

   Hardly daring to believe it, his face nonetheless cracked into a brilliant smile.

   What had he got himself into?

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For those of you who use the metric system:
> 
> 5’6” = approx. 167.5 cm.  
> 5’3” = approx. 160 cm.


	11. Someone Important

 

Why? Why, why, _why_?!

   He had not intended to kiss Potter, had never intended to kiss him—except maybe that one time in the Slytherin common room when the Gryffindor had fallen asleep in the middle of his Alchemy studies, but really, that had been a completely different situation—and he had not even been aware of being about to do it. All of a sudden, his hand had shot out from his body of its own accord and pulled the raven-haired boy to him, as if something else had taken control over him for a second.

   Before he had known it, his lips had been pressed against Potter’s, and even though they had already snogged several times his heart had begun to beat with fear of getting rejected. Hence, the kiss had become slow, soft, and tentative because of his uncertainty. It had been one thing to go with the flow of Potter’s offensive and quite another to be the initiator. Despite usually being so confident and fearless, he had felt incredibly self-conscious in that moment.

   Until Harry reciprocated.

   Feeling the other boy’s mouth move to greet his had made Draco’s blood rush, spreading a rejuvenating exhilaration through him. Strangely enough, it had given him a sense of pride for having dared to take that enormous step, and he still felt proud and elated lying in his bed that night.

   It was way past midnight already, but his excitement was too great for him to sleep. At the same time, he tried to ransack himself—the thoughts rising from the depths of his mind; the emotions that were taking control over him—in an attempt to understand what was happening to him. He had never experienced anything like it and it scared him.

   Potter made him do things he never would have imagined doing and inspired reactions in him that were completely out of character for him. No matter how much he hated it, the Gryffindor was slowly and successively breaking through his barriers—breaking down his carefully built façade.

   How was that possible? He _hated_ that insufferable prick!

   Did not he?

   Restlessly, Draco turned onto his left side and stubbornly squeezed his eyes shut, trying to will sleep to come.

   Unfortunately, once he closed his eyes an image of Potter’s lips filled the screen on the back of his eyelids. Soft and inviting, parted slightly in such a sensual way that blood immediately began to rush to Draco’s crotch, pumping into his dick and making it swell and strain against his tight boxer pants.

   It eventually became unbearably uncomfortable to lie on his side, so he flipped over onto his back, automatically reaching down a hand to rearrange stuff down there to accommodate his growing erection.

   He had never liked kissing before—it was just wet and slimy and awkward—but kissing Harry drove him mad with lust. For some inexplicable reason, snogging the raven-haired boy felt amazing, waking a seemingly insatiable desire in him. He could not stop thinking about those lips, or about that slight but strong, muscular body pressed against his, about those assertive arms around him …

    And that desire was making itself known right at that moment; Draco groaned involuntarily at the increased need to rub one out. Unconsciously, his hand went to his crotch again, slowly stroking his aching erection.

   Unbidden, fantasy images of a naked, mischievously grinning, and assertive Potter swept him away on a current of shuddering yearning. He could practically feel the other boy’s warm, masculine body pressing him down into the mattress as he parted his legs, positioning himself on top of him, and gently, but firmly pushed inside him …

   Draco jolted back into reality, shocked by his own dirty mind. He swiftly pulled his hand out of his pants and stared at it as if it was an alien being, not a part of his own body.

   What the Hell was wrong with him?! And why was Potter the one on top in his fantasy? That position should rightfully be Draco’s!

   No, wait, that was not the point here … The point was that he had slipped into a sexual fantasy about _Potter_ and had almost masturbated to it. Every cell in his body reared at the mere idea of that. Snogging him was one thing, and using him for physical pleasure in the real world might even be all right, but Draco sure as Hell was not going to use that Gryffindor tosser as wanking inspiration!

   But oh, to feel Harry’s hand envelop his desperately pulsating cock in a tight grip, stroking it, pumping it, milking it dry—

   _No!_ he violently threw at that traitor part of him that kept fantasising about Ha— _Potter_. _I am_ not _stooping so low as to_ … He could not even think about it without shuddering in revulsion. There was just no way he was ever going to masturbate to imaginations of a Gryffindor.

   He ended up fighting his urges all night, hardly getting any sleep at all, which most probably resulted in him looking like a member of the Living Dead, for Potter gave him a frowny look when he came to pick him up. “You all right?” the raven-haired boy wondered.

   “Mind your own business, slave,” Draco snapped, stalking up the corridor without caring if the other boy followed or not.

   He had no patience for small talk; his head was pounding due to his lack of sleep. He did not need any more on his plate and he certainly did not need those sexy, green eyes penetrating his guard. It seemed like he only evoked his authority as Potter’s master when he needed to shield himself from the other’s advances, but he could care less at that moment.

   Having no appetite, he did not get much down at breakfast and could easily have left the Great Hall after only fifteen minutes. Not wanting to get himself in a situation where his desire could get the better of him again, though, he insisted on staying anyway.

   While he could still keep a distance to Potter, he promised himself that he would resist all temptations; he would not encourage things to go any further. This was quite enough, and he certainly did not need that Gryffindor to be happy with life. His life was quite fine as it was.

   Once he stood next to Potter in Herbology, however, it was no longer easy to maintain his resolve. For every second that ticked by, he became more and more aware of the other boy’s heat on his right, of how effortlessly he could turn around and take him in his arms if he wished.

   And fuck, he wanted to grab him and not let go until his every desire had been fulfilled.

   Luckily, he had enough of a mind to remain in place at the long table where Professor Longbottom was teaching them about the properties of Whomping Willows. As long as he but remembered that they were in class, surrounded by their classmates, everything would be fine.

   Something warm brushed against his hand, startling him. For a second, he thought that one of the Venomous Tentaculas had escaped before realising that what he felt was another hand— _Potter’_ s hand. The Gryffindor had boldly reached out to secretly touch him below the table top.

   Pleasant shivers ran up his arm and continued on through the rest of his body as the raven-haired boy’s fingers lightly, sensually slid up and down his exposed skin. It was incredibly hot, and all of Draco’s previous reservations were forgotten, cast aside. The direct physical contact made it impossible for him to deny the tide of passion rising within him.

   If something could feel this good, it could not be bad, could it?

   He had to steady his breathing and concentrate hard on keeping his excitement from showing on his face. Not getting more than Potter’s fingertips when he desperately wanted it all was driving him crazy, and he was borderline trembling with arousal when class was finally let out. He told his mates that he needed to talk to Professor Longbottom to have an excuse for them to stay back.

   As soon as everyone else had cleared out and got a head start, Draco ordered Potter to follow him, urging him to pull out his Cloak as soon as they were out of sight. Instead of heading up to the castle as they should, Draco embraced the raven-haired boy and joined their mouths, tilting his head slightly to the left for easier access.

   Potter immediately followed suit, throwing his left arm around Draco’s neck while letting his right hand roam his upper body underneath the black robes. Loving every single touch, every single electrifying encounter with Potter’s tongue, he lost all track of time, allowing himself to enjoy the fluttering feeling in his chest and the vibrating, tingling heat coursing between them.

   The Gryffindor’s right hand slid sensuously along the curve of his back and down onto his bum, where it suddenly squeezed enthusiastically around his left cheek. Shocked, Draco jumped and let out a cross between a surprised whimper and an ecstatic moan. “Potter!” he exclaimed in a rather scandalised tone, looking down into his emerald eyes.

   The raven-haired boy blushed and averted his gaze in embarrassment. “I … I’m sorry, I don’t know what came over me, I—”

   “Do it again!” Draco commanded, pulling Potter closer to him again and once more engaging him in a hot, deep kiss, moaning in exhilarated approval when the other boy squeezed his buttocks anew.

   Due to their indulgent snogging, they wound up arriving twenty minutes late for Study of Ancient Runes. Draco explained it by claiming that he had stepped in a field vole hole on the way back from Greenhouse 7 and gave a perfect performance of limping. Potter, in turn, caught on fast and feigned indignation at being made late because of him.

   With the Cloak in Potter’s bag at all times, they started to sneak off to snog in between every class and even cutting their meals short in order to satiate their ever-growing thirst for one another. From then on, they were very careful to make sure that they got to class on time, though.

   Draco was not happy about spending two whole hours alone while Potter went to Care of Magical Creatures, but unless they wanted to draw attention to themselves they needed to uphold other people’s image of them. He had no idea what the bloody Hell he would do during his free period, though. He felt like he would go insane if he did not get a taste of Potter at least once an hour.

   “You’d better hurry back,” he practically growled huskily into the Gryffindor’s mouth before finally allowing their lips to separate.

   “Count on it,” Potter promised thickly, apparently just as reluctant to part.

   Then he slipped away.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Professor Hagrid tasked them with walking into the Forbidden Forest in pairs to search for tell-tale signs of unicorns, making the students promise to send up a flare of red light if they got into trouble. Harry almost walked up to Luna out of habit but stopped himself when he remembered that they were supposed to stay away from each other for now.

   With a sinking feeling, he turned around to look for Hermione. She seemed to be having some problems with Oliver at the moment, so he was not sure if he should approach her or not.

   The trill of silver bells interrupted his train of thought. Surreptitiously, he fished the mobile out of his inner robes pocket. He was so lucky no notifications had come in during any of the other classes, where the teachers would have heard for sure and confiscated the phone.

   It was a text from Luna.

 

_I know, I would’ve loved to go with you, too._

_Unicorn buddies in spirit? =)_

 

Smiling, he tapped out a quick reply. There was no need for him to feel lonely or set aside; Luna was always with him, no matter the physical distance between them.

   “Harry?”

   He looked up to find Cedric standing next to him, looking down at his mobile with a wondering glint in his grey eyes. So as not to create any misunderstandings, he said, “Just replying to a text from Luna. You know, with the stunt she pulled we can’t really be seen together while people are still gossiping about it …”

   He shrugged, returning the phone to his pocket.

   Cedric made a weird face that he could not quite decipher. “Yeah, of course.” After a few seconds’ silence, he continued: “Wanna go look for unicorn trails together?”

   “Sure,” Harry nodded, walking off towards the treeline with him.

   Most of the other pairs had already ventured in and were no longer within sight in between the innumerable trees and wild vegetation. Even though the forest was out of bounds without the permission of a teacher and sheltered numerous dangerous creatures, Harry had always liked the tranquil, ancient atmosphere in there. He felt at peace in the harmony of nature.

   “Have you got the Cloak with you?” Cedric asked when they had been wandering for about fifteen minutes.

   Starting, Harry at first could not find his voice to reply. Why would he want them to wear the Cloak? Why would they need to, unless Cedric wanted to do something that would be compromising if they were caught at it …?

   Still, he could not lie to Cedric; he deserved so much better than that. So he stopped to take the Cloak out of his bag, throwing it over them in one fluid motion of liquid silver.

   Once covered, Cedric smiled happily and took Harry’s hand in his. “I’ve wanted to walk like this with you for such a long time, you wouldn’t even believe,” he admitted, his cheeks burning a brighter red than usual. “During school hours, you know … like a real couple.”

   Yes, Harry could very well imagine what his partner was alluding to. Them walking together, hand in hand, through the corridors between classes, openly showing their relationship with pride. Strangely enough, it was not that hard to picture. He had imagined it would feel weird, foreign, and maybe even frightening to envision them as an open couple—to come out as gay—but somehow it only seemed natural. It was who he was, right? Who _they_ were.

   It should only be natural to want to show your love openly, right?

   As soon as he had thought that, his heart skipped a beat out of fear and the now-familiar, painful pressure of anxiety compressed his chest and made it harder to breathe properly. His head began to swim, as if he was on the brink of fainting, and black dots appeared at the edges of his vision.

   What was this reaction? Why did he feel as though he was about to die of terror? Even though he should have got used to the notion by now—should have understood that Cedric’s feelings for him would grow and evolve the more time they spent together—the mere thought of the other boy _loving_ him put an enormous amount of pressure on him. Scared him half to death.

   ‘Show your love,’ eh? That was just it. Was there any love to show?

   He wanted to be sensible, to do the right thing—for both of them—and that would be to be with Cedric, someone who liked him for who he was and who was good to him. Someone he could love and be good to in return, without anything standing in their way and without being treated badly. Someone with whom life would be easy, pleasant.

   But did he love Cedric? He liked being with him, liked holding his hand and feeling the effortless, familiar intimacy between them. But was that really the same as love?

   How did you even know if you were in love with someone?

   “Harry? Are you all right?”

   Forcing himself out of his ponderings, he made an effort to calm himself and smile reassuringly for his partner’s sake. “Yeah, just got lost in thoughts,” he waved it away. “We’ll do that, one day. Soon.”

   Fuck, why did he say that? He could not promise anything like that!

   But when Cedric’s face cracked into a bright, happy smile, he could not help but feel that he had done the right thing, saying that. Seeing him so unadulteratedly and genuinely happy made Harry’s heart beat faster. Warmth spread through him, and he gladly accepted the other boy’s embrace.

   “I will look forward to that,” he murmured tenderly, giving Harry a gentle, affectionate kiss.

   Harry snuggled deeper into Cedric’s arms, burying his face in the crook of the taller boy’s neck, experimentally drinking in his scent. There was a hint of that vanilla shampoo again, something that might be aftershave and also something that was unmistakeably Cedric. It was a familiar mix of smells that instilled a calm in him, gave him a sense of being safe.

   It was the complete opposite of what Malfoy’s scent did to him, so far from that instant, all-consuming, impossible-to-resist desire that it always awoke in him. A single whiff of that cast him straight into a dark hole of desperate _need_ , spinning out of control faster than he could remind himself to remain composed.

   Merely thinking about it brought the memory of that intoxicating scent to the forefront of his mind, bringing with it the warmth of the blonde’s body pressed up against his and the feeling of his hot lips, making Harry ache with longing.

   An uncharacteristic, racy chuckle escaped Cedric, and his arms tightened around him. “Harry …,” he said with what sounded like a blend of surprise and approval in his voice. “I wasn’t expecting you to rise to the occasion this soon, and certainly not in the middle of the Forbidden Forest …”

   At first, Harry did not grasp what Cedric was referring to or why he sounded so teasing, but then his brain connected the words ‘rise to the occasion’ to his current physical state. Reflexively, he pushed back from him and almost stumbled on the hem of the Cloak. He had not even noticed, himself, that he had hardened! Now he stared at Cedric in shock, panicking.

   “I-I’m sorry, I didn’t … didn’t mean to …,” he stuttered, burning with shame.

   To his great surprise, Cedric just laughed. “It’s no worry, Harry,” he assured him, pulling him back into his arms. Kissed the top of his head. His forehead. His cheek. “I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t thought about it, myself.” Kissed the corner of his mouth. The other corner.

   Harry was positively shivering when Cedric’s mouth finally captured his again, slowly and sensually closing around his lower lip and nibbling at it playfully.

   He stood completely still, wondering what the Hell to do. His pulse was speeding, but not due to arousal; no, quite the opposite. He did not want to have sex with Cedric, not now, probably not for a long time yet— _he was not ready for this_! But he could not tell him that he had got turned on by the remembered scent of Draco Malfoy …

   “Cedric, wait,” he pleaded, hearing the note of panic in his own voice and flushing crimson from humiliation.

   The other boy immediately stopped and met his gaze enquiringly.

   Harry sighed with relief, then took a deep breath to steel himself for what he had to say next. “You know I told you I’ve never dated before …”

   His voice died out. Did not know how to continue.

   Cedric frowned. “Yes. What, was that a … lie?”

   “What? No, no. I was perfectly honest when I told you that,” Harry hurriedly protested, silently adding _But I’m not anymore_ in his mind. “What I mean is … I’ve never dated before, never kissed anyone before you …” If you did not count accidentally kissing a certain blonde’s nape after falling on top of him. “So, you know, I’ve also never … erm …”

   The taller boy gave a start. “Oh … yeah, of course, I understand,” he babbled, nervously shifting his eyes and fidgeting with his sleeve. “I mean, I figured—I knew you were a … I was just joking, before, when I said that stupid thing about—oh, my goblin, why did I say that?!”

   Hating to see Cedric so flustered, Harry impulsively hugged him close and silenced him with a kiss. “It’s all right,” he soothed, “I didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable or imply that you’d done something wrong. I just wanted to make it clear, in case … in case I won’t be able to give you everything you want … everything _of me_ for a long time.”

   Lord, saying it out loud was such a humiliation.

   But at least Cedric seemed placated. “Harry, you are giving me everything I’ve ever dreamed of simply by being with me,” he said with an easy smile. “It doesn’t matter how much time you may need, I am happy just to be yours. We’ll take things slow, give you a chance to get ready, yeah?”

   Harry nodded in reply, but on the inside he felt guilty. Happy just to be his? This amazing person was happy just to be with him, and he could not even muster that much in return. He really needed to do better; get those raging hormones out of his system and focus on the important person here.

   They continued deeper into the forest in companionable silence, just holding hands and nothing more. Walking like that through the trees and the dense underbrush, Harry regained that sense of peace and security that being close to Cedric always gave him, and he started to enjoy himself again.

   Before leaving the forest, however, the other boy took his last chance to snog him before they had to go their separate ways. Giving him one last, long look with his piercing, grey eyes, he asked: “How would you like to go on a date with me in Hogsmeade this weekend?”

   He probably should have anticipated this, yet Harry was completely taken aback by the question. Opening and closing his mouth like a fish out of water, he tried to find the right words to decline without hurting him. Because he was going to Hogsmeade with Malfoy.

   Then Cedric’s smile began to freeze and get replaced by a confused, downcast expression, and he just could not bear hurting him, so, against better judgement, he exclaimed, “Yes! Of course I want to go on a date with you. But is Sunday okay? I kinda have to act as Malfoy’s pack mule on Saturday …”

   The other boy visibly exhaled in relief. “Yeah, of course, don’t worry about it. We’ll go on Sunday.”

   And so Harry ended up with two dates for that weekend. Not to mention the task of asking Malfoy to give him Sunday to himself so he would not have to disappoint Cedric by cancelling … Knowing that the blonde most likely would reject his plea if he simply asked him, Harry had a feeling he would have to get creative.

   He chose the thirty-minute break between Arithmancy and Muggle Sports to try the devious trick he had devised, since that would give him a bit more time to work with. Not surprisingly, Malfoy steered his steps to a secluded area of the seventh floor so they could safely slip in under the Cloak together.

   Allowing the blonde’s libido to build up, Harry snogged him for a good ten minutes before implementing his plan. Breaking away from Malfoy’s lips, he traced his jawline with hot, fleeting kisses, feeling encouraged when the blonde moaned approvingly. “You know how there’s only four Hogsmeade weekends in a year?” he murmured against the smooth skin of his neck.

   Malfoy drew a shuddering breath when Harry let his tongue travel up towards his pale earlobe.

   “Ye-yes? What of it?”

   He spent ten, maybe fifteen seconds drawing random patterns below the blonde’s earlobe with the tip of his tongue. Then, he said, “I’d like to spend some time with my friends on Sunday, so I was wondering if you could give me the day off?”

   The Slytherin immediately stiffened and the good, old superior aristocrat was back. “Give you the day off? So you expect me to go an entire day without my servant just so you can have fun with your Gryffindor rabble? I should not thi-hiiink—haaa—”

   Knowing exactly what he was doing, Harry had grasped the blonde’s earlobe between his teeth and gently bitten down on it to shut him up and was now sucking on it. Malfoy could not possibly continue his harangue when one of his most sensitive spots was so ruthlessly attacked.

   “Oh, you like that?” Harry teased, perchance enjoying himself a little too much.

   It was apparent that the blonde tried to reply, but no coherent words would come out of his mouth; he merely tilted his head away to give Harry better access. With his eyes closed and his lips parted like that, breathing heavily and moaning in pleasure, he looked beautiful—and so incredibly sexy … It was all Harry could do not to give in to his own urges right then and there. But he needed to restrain himself until he had got his wish granted.

   “If you would like me to do this again, you will let me go to Hogsmeade with my friends on Sunday,” he demanded, releasing the earlobe to emphasise that he was serious.

   Malfoy opened his eyes and glared down at him. “You’re _blackmailing_ me?!” he exclaimed.

   Without replying, Harry moved his mouth to the nape of the Slytherin’s neck, licking and playfully nibbling at the skin until he felt tiny bumps of gooseflesh under his tongue. “What about this?” he wondered, knowing full well that this was another sensitive spot. “D’you like this?”

   The drawn out groan he got in response said it all.

   “Well, if you don’t give me Sunday off I won’t do this anymore …” He let his hands travel the length of Malfoy’s chest. “Or this …” Let them slide all the way around him as he moaned in protest, then followed the curve of the blonde’s back until they finally came to rest on his buttocks, squeezing and massaging sensuously. “And _certainly_ not this …”

   To lend his statements validity, he abruptly let go of him and stepped away, not touching him anywhere.

   The blonde’s eyes once more popped open, staring at him in disapproval and incredulity. “You wouldn’t dare …”

   Harry grinned. “I’m already doing it.”

   Affronted, Malfoy shot out from the wall he had been pressed up against in an attempt to catch Harry in his arms. “Get back over here!”

   “Nope—not gonna touch you again until you give me Sunday off!” he maintained, taking a step backward for every step the Slytherin advanced.

   Crying out in frustration, Malfoy looked as if he was going to throw a fit. Then he sighed in defeat, even if he did cross his arms over his chest in defiance when he said, “All right, you win. You may have the day off.”

   Smiling with his entire face, Harry threw his arms around the blonde and pressed an overly excited, hard kiss on his lips. “Thank you!”

   Malfoy kept glaring at him. “You are despicable, Potter,” he declared. After a short pause, he added: “But I guess I have to admire your cunning.”

   Harry took that as a compliment. _Well played, me._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was acting strange—evasive and preoccupied—and that had her worried. There was clearly something on his mind, something that he would not tell her, and she was convinced that it was connected to his breakdown somehow. Every time she tried to ask him about it, he refused to talk about anything serious with her, and that could only mean that he was hiding something.

   Since he was not about to tell her about it, she would have to find out for herself.

   She tried to keep watch over him to make sure that he was truly all right, but it was proving difficult when they no longer had classes together and he was impossible to find during the breaks. Nowadays, they only had Potions together on Thursdays, and that was not until 2:15. She could not even find him in the morning when they had lessons on the same floor, a minute’s walk apart.

   And navigating the stone corridors with a one-year-old in a bulky pushchair did not exactly make her surveillance efforts any easier …

   But after lunch she would not fail; she would follow Harry and see where he went and what he was hiding from her. Therefore, she wolfed down her food and kept a close eye on her raven-haired classmate, who was sitting between Cedric and Angel three seats down from her. As soon as the call came from Malfoy and Harry stood to leave, she told Ginny to mind Oliver for her and set off at a safe distance from him.

   Her eyes were on Harry’s back when he convened with the pampered Slytherin and exited the Great Hall through the big doors. To everyone else it must look like they were heading off for the next lesson, but she knew that Harry would slip away somewhere along the line—and she would be there to confront him about it.

   “Hey, Hermione,” a dreamy voice suddenly said on her right, forcing her to stop shortly after gaining the Entrance Hall.

   Luna Lovegood stood before her, somehow having got between her and her target. “Er, hi,” she greeted reluctantly, gazing off down the hall just in time to see Harry and Malfoy disappear around a corner on their way to the greenhouses.

   She was losing them!

   Disappointed, she turned her attention back to Lovegood—and noticed that the Slytherin girl was wearing a crudely weaved straw hat with earflaps that looked horribly uncomfortable and silly beyond belief. Hermione had always felt discomfited around her since she could never seem to wrap her head around her, with her eccentric personality and unpredictability, so she never quite knew how to talk to her.

   “That’s a nice hat, Loony—er, Luna,” she swiftly corrected herself, mortified at the derogatory moniker that had just flown out of her mouth unbidden. She knew that many people called Lovegood ‘Loony’ behind her back—sometimes even to her face—but she certainly did not want to be one of them. Calling people names was _wrong_. And she was a mother, a supposed role model.

   The dirty-blond girl did not seem to have heard the denomination, though. She merely smiled fancifully. “I can make you one; it would only take a couple of days,” she offered, sounding happy to help.

   Hermione squirmed before her direct, uncompromising grey gaze. “Oh … er, I … No, I don’t—I mean, it’s really nice of you and all, but I just don’t think—”

   Lovegood tilted her head to the left, appearing to study her ears with a slight frown. “Yes, you’re right,” she said, “the Wrackspurts wouldn’t like your brain. Ah, well.”

   She shrugged and turned on her heel, skipping off through the emptying Entrance Hall.

   “Wait!” Hermione called after her, putting her hands on her head in fright. “Why wouldn’t they like my brain?”

   But the kooky Slytherin did not stop; did not even look back.

   Getting desperate, Hermione cried: “Luna, what’s wrong with my brain?!”

   No answer came, and her mission to find out Harry’s secret was forgotten in light of this new alarming circumstance.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That Thursday evening, Draco was lounging on one of the couches in the Slytherin common room while waiting for Potter to come back from his Ancient Studies class. For all intents and purposes, he was half-lying against the armrest, lazy and relaxing, but on the inside he was restless and had to constantly fight the urge to get up and pace.

   For every day that passed—no, for every _hour_ that passed—it became increasingly more difficult to be apart from the Gryffindor. It was as if his very skin required the raven-haired boy to be next to him to not crawl. It was a craving, a need, an addiction; Potter had become a drug for him.

   But he could not let that show, because no matter how strongly he may desire to be close to Potter, his reputation and standing was still more important.

   “So, got any plans for the weekend, then?” he asked Luna, who was sitting in an armchair next to him.

   She lit up. “Yes, I’m going to show Greggy where in Hogsmeade you have the best chance of catching a glimpse of the Blibbering Humdinger!” she told him enthusiastically. “Oh, I wish Harry and you could come with us …”

   He did not quite like the way she said ‘Harry and you’ and nervously glanced around him to see if anyone else had picked up on it. Luckily, no-one seemed to be paying them any attention.

   “Yes, well, I am sure the Hibernating Bumslinger will still be there next time,” he muttered with a torpid wave of his hand.

   “Blibbering Humdinger,” Luna corrected him with an amused, lopsided grin, but he hardly heard her because he had just spotted Potter coming in from the Dungeons corridor.

   Sitting up more hastily than he would have liked, he said, “About time you show up, slave,” all for the benefit of his classmates, for what he truly thought was _Finally I get to have him near again_. “Did you bring the books I asked you to pick up for me this time, or did you ‘forget’ again?”

   Potter flashed him an apologetic smile that made his heart skip a beat and made his fingers itch to touch him, pull him down onto the couch with him and ravish him. “Yeah, I went by the library on my way here, that’s why I’m late,” he said, coming to a stop in front of Draco.

   While he opened up his bag and started to pull out the requested books, Draco turned back to Luna only to find that the armchair was empty. Frowning in befuddlement, he called: “Luna?”

   Next to him, Potter gave a start. “Luna was here?”

   “Yeah, she was just …”

   Apparently, she had snuck away when the raven-haired boy had arrived, smoothly extracting herself before any of them would realise that she was gone.

   “I guess she didn’t want Harry to feel uncomfortable,” Miles commented from the couch across from his. The shorter blonde was sitting back, reading a book on advanced potion-making, with Crabbe stuffing his face with chocolate cake on his left. Goyle was sitting in an armchair to the right of Potter, who just slumped down next to Draco.

   “I wish she wouldn’t do that,” the Gryffindor grumbled as he picked up his DADA books and the unfinished essay that Professor Snape would be expecting tomorrow morning.

   “We don’t always get what we wish for,” Draco pointed out tersely, and hit the raven-haired boy over the head with a roll of parchment. “Could we get started now, or would you like to lament your inferior genes, too?”

   “Ouch! What was that for?!”

   “Lollygagging.”

   “What are you, a Skyrim guard?”

   Draco blinked at him in incomprehension. “A what?”

   Groaning in frustration, Potter said, “Never mind, you naturally wouldn’t understand the reference.”

   He silently filed away the term ‘Skyrim Guard’ for later research. If there was something he had missed during History class or suchlike, he would make sure to commit it to memory.

   Still, he was a bit annoyed that the Gryffindor would think he ‘naturally would not understand’ something, so he violently stretched out his hand for the parchment lying in the other boy’s lap. “Just give me that essay, Harry, and shut up!” he snapped, snatching it out of his hands.

   Belatedly, he realised that Potter was staring at him with his mouth hanging open and that it had become completely quiet around them.

   “Wha-what?” the Gryffindor stammered.

   Raising an eyebrow, Draco asked: “What? What is the matter with you?”

   “You called me ‘Harry.’”

   Chortling in undisguised spite, Draco shook his head. “No, I can assure you I did not,” he said. The mere notion was laughable! As if he would call that prat by his given name, like they were mates or something …

   “Oh, but you did,” Crabbe objected. “You said, ‘Just give me the essay, Harry’—we all ‘eard you.”

   “Clear as day,” Miles confirmed, then he playfully elbowed Crabbe in the side. “I think our dear Draco likes Harry.”

   The podgy boy next to him began to laugh teasingly. “Yeah, I think ‘e likes having ‘im around,” he agreed, sounding somewhat muffled due to the cake in his mouth.

   “I do not!” Draco cried, beside himself with affront. “I hate that bloody knob!”

   “Sure you do,” Miles taunted, grinning self-righteously.

   “And I did _not_ call him ‘Harry,’ either! You obviously misheard me!”

   “Obviously,” Crabbe nodded sarcastically.

   Even though he would never admit it, he started to wonder. Had he really called him ‘Harry?’ Ransacking his mind, he realised that his mates were right; the name _had_ slipped out. That mortified him and made him feel immensely unsettled. Why had he called him that? Calling someone by their given name equalled recognising them as someone important. And Potter was _not_ important to him— _could not_ be important to him, for Salazar’s sake!

   “Calm down, Draco,” Miles was saying now, his usual indifference in place anew. “It’s no big deal. Harry’s practically part of the gang, anyway.”

   Goyle immediately grunted his concurrence, and Crabbe voiced a similar sentiment.

   Although it was against every principle he had been raised to uphold, Draco reluctantly had to agree with them. “Yes, well … I guess he is,” he murmured reluctantly.

   He was not completely comfortable with that; he would much rather keep Potter separate from his mates to ensure that nothing of their secret connection was betrayed.

   At least, that was what he kept telling himself.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Blaise watched from a distance as that prick Potter stepped right in and took his place in the group, as if Draco’s casting him out had opened up a vacancy that the rest of them were only too happy to fill. Had he not been their friend for more than six years—for over a decade, as was the case for some of them?

   It was bad enough to not be welcome in Draco’s presence anymore without the entire gang casting him out and replacing him with a bleeding Gryffindor!

   All he wanted was a chance to explain himself, that he had not meant to do what he did but that he took full responsibility for his insensitive actions and acknowledged that he had done something terribly wrong. To get a genuine chance to apologise and, if possible, make up for it. To be close to Draco again.

   It hurt every time his attempts at making amends were shot down.

   “I thought Drake would’ve grown tired of having Potter running around his legs all the time by now,” he muttered darkly as he glared across the common room, where the blonde and the Gryffindor were working on some mutual project, bickering loudly.

   Pansy, who was sitting in the window above him with her back to the dark lake, yawned and said, “You know how Draco is; he loves to push people around and he has the worst case of control issues I’ve ever seen.”

   Apparently, it all seemed pretty clear to her, but Blaise was not easily fooled. If it had only been a question of bullying the object of his hatred, Draco would not let Potter sit with him, and he would certainly not sacrifice his valuable time to teach a Gryffindor Alchemy.

   “But it looks like they’re becoming mates or something,” he protested, fully aware that he was whining like a little child. “I’m being replaced.”

   “You’re not being replaced, Blaise,” Luna disputed, appearing out of nowhere and gliding down next to him on the low-backed couch in luxurious black leather. She gently and easily rested her head against his shoulder. “No-one can replace you.”

   They were all used to Luna coming and going with the effortless, elegant soundlessness of a cat, so neither he nor Pansy was startled when she was just suddenly _there_.

   He kind of wished she would take off that awful hat, though; it was chafing against his skin through the thin, tight, long-sleeved shirt he was wearing.

   “Is that so?” he wondered, not convinced in the slightest, watching as Potter and Greg laughed at something while Draco resignedly shook his head at them. A sting of jealousy stabbed through him. “Doesn’t seem like Draco’s about to let me back in the group anytime soon …”

   Luna patted his knee comfortingly. “Oh, he will, eventually. Just give him some time. You know he doesn’t just forgive and forget.”

   “That’s right—he’s too proud for that!” Pansy put in. “You’re gonna have to grovel for a decade or two first.”

   Blaise groaned and threw his head back in frustration. “Great …”

   And how exactly was he supposed to grovel when he was not allowed within twenty feet of him?

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry was indescribably happy that dinner followed their Friday Quidditch practice, for otherwise he would have found it near impossible to evade Cedric’s grasp. It was not that he did not want to spend time with his roommate, because he did; he just wanted to be with Malfoy more at the moment. He felt as though the chaotic, hormonal reaction that the blonde inspired in him was culminating, and he was convinced that it would ebb out soon.

   The strength of the pull had him physically yearning in such a way that it almost became painful to be apart from the blonde. Only when their arms were entwined and their tongues fighting for control over their joined mouths was he at ease. He had never thought that it was possible to experience withdrawal because of a person, but that was the only explanation he could find for his weird condition.

   His heart pounded impatiently against his tightened ribcage and his limbs were shaky with agitation the whole way from the Quidditch pitch to the Entrance Hall. Not until he spotted the blonde in the throng did his nerves calm and a pulsating warmth chase away the pressure in his chest.

   He thought he saw the same raw hunger in Malfoy’s eyes and felt how his entire body struggled to break free of his mind’s steel-grip and press up against his—who the fuck cared that they were in public? He probably would have done it, too, if Malfoy had not ordered him to follow him into the Great Hall.

   It was incredibly difficult to keep a straight face while serving the blonde, but somehow he managed to get through dinner. Fifteen minutes in, he was asked to refill the blonde’s goblet of pumpkin juice, but when he reached for the jug on the table, a tall, dark figure pushed in past him.

   “I’ll do it,” Zabini said even as Harry stumbled back into the wall behind the table.

   Malfoy gave him an angry, indignant glare. “You certainly will not! Get away from me!”

   But the classmate persisted, picking up the pumpkin juice and preparing to pour it into the blonde’s goblet. “No need to bother the Gryffindors to satisfy your whims, Draco; I’d be more than happy to serve you for the rest of my life.”

   “You will not ‘serve me’ in any way!” Malfoy hissed threateningly. “Now get the bloody Hell away or I will _make_ you!”

   Parkinson, who was sitting across from the blonde, leaned in over the table with her eyes locked on Zabini. “Blaise, this is not what I meant when I said ‘grovel’—”

   “Come on, Drake, it’s just a refill,” Zabini cut in, grinning wildly. “Let me—”

   “ _No!_ ”

   Harry had finally managed to regain his balance and put a disarming hand on the dark-skinned boy’s shoulder. “Mate, he said no. Walk away.”

   “Not until I’ve refilled his goblet,” Zabini stubbornly persisted, and suddenly everything was happening really fast; Zabini tilted the jug over the goblet, letting the dark-orange pumpkin juice pour out; Malfoy threw out his arm to force the other boy away from him; the jug was hit and tipped over, juice spraying over the blonde’s robes and shirt …

   Malfoy shot up from his seat, aghast and furious all at the same time. “You fucking twat-face!” he expelled, so loudly that people turned to stare all over the Hall. Not caring one bit, the blonde simply extricated himself from the bench and snapped his fingers at Harry. “I am leaving. Grab my bag and stay five steps behind me if you know what is good for you, Potter.”

   With those words, he stalked off.

   Not wanting to get on the blonde’s bad side, Harry hurried after him at a safe distance all the way to his room in the heart of the Slytherin Dungeon. Out of habit, he went straight to the book trunk by the foot of Malfoy’s bed and began to extract the items they would not need from the bag.

   When he was done, he straightened up and turned towards the other boy, who was standing on the right side of the bed. “Malfoy, I put everything in the trunk. Is there—”

   The words died on his tongue as it dawned on him that the blonde had stripped off his robes and shirt. His slender, muscular back gained a gold-tinted glow in the torchlight, and Harry could not help but stare at the naked, milky skin. The flexing shoulder blades, the elegant curve of the spine, the muscles that worked when he bent down to pick up something …

   Throat growing thick with arousal, Harry swallowed hard and tried to finish his sentence: “Is there anything else that you … that you need me to …”

   As if in a daze or trance, he felt his legs moving towards the blonde, transfixed with that beautiful, bare back; he just had to touch it, feel that smooth, warm skin under his trembling fingers.

   “No, I just need to change, so you can go out to—”

   Whatever else he had meant to say was drowned in a violent, startled intake of breath because Harry had just put his hand on his right shoulder blade and was slowly tracing his back, shivers of anticipation running down his own spine. He was astonished at how amazing it felt to feel Malfoy’s skin against his own; his pulse quickened and every nerve ending tingled; his entire body became pleasantly warm, and the only thing he could think about was to feel him in his arms, pressed up against him.

   He moved in closer, letting his hands slide around the blonde’s hips towards his stomach while sensually placing his lips on the soft, hot skin of his nape.

   Malfoy stiffened in his arms, his breathing growing heavier for every inch Harry gained, for every kiss he planted on his pale neckline and shoulder.

   “Harry …”

   The name was but a faint whisper, spoken in such a low voice that Harry could not be sure that he had actually heard it, but it still filled him with elation. Feeling happier than he could remember ever feeling, he spun the blonde around in his arms and raised himself up on his toes, pressing their lips together.

   He thought of him as ‘Harry.’

   That simple recognition awakened a fire in him, a fire that attached itself to the desire he harboured for this boy. On the inside, he rejoiced when Malfoy kissed him back with equal passion, and when he unclasped Harry’s black robes and slid them off his shoulders, letting them fall to the stone floor.

   Somehow, they wound up on the bed, lying on their sides facing each other while snogging deeply; Harry only knew that they were standing up one minute and embracing on the comfortable mattress the next. His hands travelled all over Malfoy—no, _Draco_ —and he could not get enough of him, had to have more, feel more, feel closer to him.

   Gently gripping the blonde’s face with both hands, he brought their mouths ever closer while simultaneously turning over on his back, urging him to move with him.

   Draco eagerly complied, straddling him and popping the buttons in his shirt open with a non-verbal spell. His silver eyes drank in Harry’s exposed chest and abdomen while his hands travelled the same distance. A smirk was forming on his lips. “You are a hairy man, Potter,” he commented teasingly.

   Since he was not in the habit of looking at his roommates’ or teammates’ bodies in the bathroom or locker room, he had no idea if he was hairier than others. “They don’t call me ‘Harry’ for nothing,” he quipped somewhat nervously, afraid that the blonde would find it unattractive.

   “I like it,” Draco said, his voice husky with obvious desire. “It’s manly.”

   And as if to prove his statement, he bent down over Harry and kissed his chest, using not only his lips but also his tongue, drawing a hot, tingling line down to his nipple, where he stopped to lick, suck, and nibble. His hot tongue and teasing teeth had Harry crying out and unconsciously raising his chest off the bed in ecstatic greeting. Waves of pleasure unlike any he had ever experienced washed over him, and he was going under—drowning.

   Encouraged and excited by his reaction, Draco ground their crotches together, and Harry could feel his hard, pulsating erection match his own. He felt as though there was something he should be considering right now, but the blonde’s hot mouth placing sensual kisses all along his chest distracted him, made him moan and dig his fingers into Draco’s soft, tousled platinum hair.

   He loved the blonde’s hands running down his sides and those wonderful, warm lips that convened at the waistline of his trousers, tongue tip playfully drawing tickling patterns below his bellybutton as those long, slender fingers worked at the buttons in his trousers. Got them open. Began to pull them down over his hips …

   Suddenly wide awake with realisation about what was about to happen, Harry instinctively grabbed the blonde’s shoulder and pushed at it, panic rising within him. “Wait!” he cried. “Wait, wait, please, wait!”

   Frowning, Draco looked up at him. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

   Feverishly shaking his head, feeling his cheeks burning with humiliation, Harry tried to smile reassuringly but probably only managed a crooked grimace. “No, no, you didn’t hurt me, I’m fine—everything is fine,” he babbled, silently cursing himself for being such a ninny. “It’s just …”

   He bit his lip. Merlin, did he really have to have this conversation twice in just a few days’ time?

   The blonde blinked at him in confusion. “What? Come on, spit it out, we haven’t all day.”

   Taking a deep breath, Harry finally said, “I’ve never … been with anyone before, so I think … I think I might not be ready for that step just yet.”

   A light went on in the blonde’s head. “Oh. You’re a virgin?” he asked, making it sound more like a statement than an actual question, and Harry blushed even deeper. “Wow. I never would have guessed—you are quite the aggressor, Potter.”

   He started at that comment, not sure what that meant exactly. Was it a compliment? Or was it a bad thing, to be an ‘aggressor?’ It did not sound particularly positive …

   Draco lay back down next to him, encouraging him to turn on his side to face him. Looking him deep into the eyes while gently caressing his cheek, he said, “We’ll just have to keep it somewhat less … sexual until you are ready, then.”

   Harry could not help but stare at him in astonishment and disbelief. “You still wanna do this?” he wondered. “I mean, you’re okay with me not … and you still want to do this with me?”

   A wry smile came to the blonde’s lips. “If I didn’t want to do this, I wouldn’t be here—or, rather, _you_ wouldn’t be here, seeing as this is my room,” he quipped, getting an absentminded look. “For some preposterous, completely inexplicable reason, I have to have you. But for now, I can wait.”

   “Then let’s enjoy ourselves,” Harry suggested mischievously, and captured Draco’s mouth with his, feeling immensely happy to be able to continue their snogging sessions. Only when his body relaxed into Draco’s embrace did he realise that he had been tensing up, that he had been scared of losing what they had.

   Aware that things could change at any time—that everything had to end at some point—he decided to go all in and enjoy the moments they had together to its fullest. No reservations. And in order to extend the duration of them, he would not hold back; he would allow every moan, every spontaneous outcry, every unconscious movement that his body wanted to make to let Draco know exactly how much he liked it.

   Soon, they were once more entwined, snogging violently with their hands roaming each other’s bare chests and backs, tugging at each other’s hair and massaging each other’s buttocks. The blonde pressed closer and started to turn Harry onto his back anew before coming back to his senses and breaking away.

   His pale cheeks rosy with arousal, he sat up on the edge of the bed. “Would you excuse me for a minute?” he asked. “I can’t go on if I don’t …”

   He let the rest remain unsaid, but Harry understood what he meant. Flushing, he nodded. “Sure, yeah, I’ll just … wait here.”

   Even though he felt like he should not look, he followed Draco with his eyes until he disappeared into the small bathroom. It was probably wrong to listen since the other boy had closed the door, yet he could not help but tuning in to any sound that may come out of the bathroom. Knowing that the blonde was in there masturbating because of wanting Harry—maybe even fantasising that it _was_ Harry pleasing him right now—was surprisingly hot.

   He had no idea if Draco was verbal in bed; he had moaned on occasion, but that did not necessarily mean that he would vocalise his pleasure during sex. To his great astonishment, Harry realised that he hoped he would be. He _wanted_ the blonde to be loud, _wanted_ to hear him moan and gasp and shout …

   When had he become such a pervert?!

   Right then, he distinctly heard a moan coming from the bathroom, and his pulse immediately sped up in excitement. Even better was that it did not end there; the moaning continued, presumably escalating in sync with his passion.

   The blonde’s sounds had unexpected effects on Harry. They not only made him ache with a need for release; they also evoked oddly specific desires concerning what he wanted to do to Draco. He could very vividly see him tied down under him on the bed, forced to submit to whatever Harry decided to do … teasing him, denying him his ultimate pleasure solely to provoke more erotic, delicious sounds from him …

   “ _Harry!_ ” Draco suddenly cried out on the other side of the bathroom door, the loveliest sound Harry had ever heard—he was calling out _his_ name as he climaxed! That became too much for him, and the mere sound of the blonde’s ecstasy made him cum in his pants, suddenly and violently, catching him completely off guard.

   Astounded, he lay there panting, wondering at what he had just experienced.

   The blonde began to move around in the bathroom again, so Harry quickly scrambled off the bed and snatched his wand out of his discarded robes and Scoured his underwear before the other boy joined him and learnt what he had done. Hence, he was standing in the middle of the floor when Draco emerged.

   Giving him a surprised look, he said, “Oh, you are getting dressed? I was of the impression that we were to continue—”

   “Yeah, I’d love to, just thought we might wanna take this someplace else,” Harry hurriedly pointed out as an excuse for his being out of bed.

   Draco started, and his head snapped around towards the door that led to the corridor. “Blimey, you’re right. It perfectly slipped my mind where we are … anyone could have walked in here while we were …”

   Harry’s chest filled with dread at the thought of people finding out about him and Draco. They would not understand; his relationships with his friends would get tested in ways he did not care for—he might even lose some of them. Not to mention that Draco would withdraw from him to salvage whatever he could of his reputation.

   He could not risk that.

   He needed this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry returned to Gryffindor Tower shortly after ten, and Cedric’s eyes instantly homed in on his energised, rosy-cheeked form. He was obviously in a very good mood; his face was positively radiant, his smile stretching from ear to ear, and there was a peculiar glint in his beautiful, green eyes. Seeing him so happy after everything that had happened made Cedric’s heart beat faster in reciprocating happiness.

   Harry’s happiness meant everything to him.

   They were all sitting around the fireplace in their favourite seats, enjoying the evening and talking excitedly about Hogsmeade; what to do, what to get, what to eat and drink. Little Oliver was toddling around between them, mumbling to himself in some made-up language, playing with a stuffed toy unicorn. When he caught sight of Harry, he lit up and started running towards him, calling: “Hawwy! Hawwy!”

   The raven-haired boy stooped down with his arms stretched out. “Oliver, my favourite pilot!” he exclaimed brightly, and scooped up the tiny toddler, whereupon he swung him around in a circle while making aeroplane noises.

   The little boy laughed in exhilaration, and Cedric saw that Hermione was smiling affectionately at the scene. She had been having trouble putting him down because of all the excitement over the Hogsmeade weekend and had been looking tired all evening, but now she shone.

   Cedric watched as Harry brought the laughing boy to her and bent down to place a kiss on her cheek, amusedly shaking his head at his boyfriend’s antics and the bashful blush on Hermione’s face. “Harry,” she admonished in embarrassment. “What has got into you?”

   The normally elusive Mr. Potter merely sketched a bow at her before moving on to the armchair occupied by his sister. Without warning, he sat down on the armrest next to her and tickled her, then embraced her lovingly when she giggled. “How about spending some time together on Sunday evening?” he asked her. “Play some games, eat some sweets—just like old times.”

   Angel gasped in happy surprise. “Really?! I’d love that!” she exclaimed, hugging him hard.

   “You bet. Write me a list of what you want me to pick up from Honeydukes, okay?”

   It was amazing, seeing him with his sister; he was such a loving, caring, and attentive young man, always giving more than he expected from other people. It was but some of the many things that had made Cedric fall for him, but possibly the most vital ones.

   After spending a few more minutes with Angel, Harry announced that he was beat and was going to go wind down. On his way to the boys’ dormitories, however, he stopped by Neville’s chair and pinched his cheek, commending him on finally managing to produce a corporeal Patronus that morning.

   Hermione followed his progress with an incredulous expression. “All right, who are you, and what have you done with Harry?” she wondered.

   Cedric had to admit that he was curious, too, because Harry was behaving quite out of character, and he was relieved that Hermione had asked the question since the raven-haired boy was more likely to answer his best friend than his good-mate-turned-boyfriend.

   Oddly enough, Harry got a faraway, secretive look and the corners of his mouth turned upwards in a dreamy smile. “It’s just going to be an amazing weekend,” he said cryptically before bidding them all goodnight, making Cedric jump in astonishment.

   He was actually alluding to their date—in public? Did that mean that he was coming around and was adapting to the idea of them coming out as a couple? Heart beating faster in hope and feeling a warm, energised elation, Cedric hastily rose from his seat and muttered some excuse or other; he did not care what the others thought, he just wanted to be with Harry right now.

   The raven-haired boy was standing over his bed, on which numerous items of clothing were spread. He seemed to be contemplating them, so Cedric walked up to him and put an arm around his waist; kissed the side of his face. “Need advice?”

   Harry looked up at him gratefully. “Hey,” he greeted, and gave him a quick kiss before returning his attention to the clothes strewn all over his four-poster. “I have no idea what to wear on a date,” he finally admitted, sounding endearingly concerned about it.

   Tousling his hair affectionately, Cedric said, “Just be yourself, silly.”

   Turning around towards him, Harry grinned sarcastically. “Oh, I’m silly now, am I?”

   “Yes, you are,” he confirmed teasingly, sweeping the shorter boy into his arms and hugging him close to him.

   A trace of cologne wafted up from him now that he was close enough for Cedric to smell him. Frowning in bewilderment, he leant in even further and silently inhaled Harry’s scent from the crook of his neck. Yes, there was a faint, but very distinct, foreign fragrance on him. But that did not make any sense, because Harry did not use cologne …

   So, how had it got there? It was not very likely that Harry would suddenly ask a mate to borrow his cologne when he seemed to have an utter disinterest in or distaste for fragrances, and it seemed equally unlikely that a mere hug or suchlike would result in someone else’s scent rubbing off on him. Which basically left certain deterring possibilities …

   Lately, Harry had been acting differently, been in an unfailingly splendid mood, and had often come in very late in the evening, much later than Malfoy required his services, from what it sounded like. So what exactly did he do between the time Malfoy dismissed him and the time he came back?

   Could he … could he be seeing someone else?

   _No,_ Cedric thought, inwardly chuckling at himself for being so ridiculously paranoid, _that’s not possible._ There was probably a perfectly reasonable explanation, but he did not want to bother Harry by asking for it; there was no reason to. Instead, he hugged him a little tighter and stole a few extra kisses before they had to break apart so as not to get caught.

   It was always hard to separate from Harry and lie down in his own bed, alone.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Midnight had come and gone hours ago, yet Draco could not seem to find the peace to sleep. Strange how night time had become such a nuisance. His body was going to war with him, stubbornly jerking and tossing and itching, his skin crawling and his muscles demanding to be used _right this minute_.

   With so much nervous energy surging through him, sleep was unachievable.

   Inevitably, his thoughts kept wandering to his evening with Harry.

   Harry … It felt so weird to think of the raven-haired boy like that—ascribing him importance above the common rabble that dwelled within the castle. But he supposed that that was what was happening; that the Gryffindor had somehow managed to crack open Draco’s defences and nestled himself into a deeper layer of him.

   Absentmindedly, he ran his fingertips over his bare chest, remembering the other boy’s touch—a touch that he now craved and needed like the air that he breathed or the water he drank. Remembering the sensation of Harry’s chest beneath his eager hands, the taste of his lips …

   If Harry had not panicked when he did, Draco would easily have slept with him. He had no qualms about that, no hesitations or inhibitions whatsoever, and that made him wonder. He wanted Harry desperately, more than he had ever wanted anyone before, and whenever the Gryffindor aroused him it was as if all sensible thoughts were thrown out the window and he would do _anything_ to get into his pants.

   It scared him somewhat, because he had no idea what it all meant—and if there was anything Draco hated it was not knowing or not understanding something.

   Then there was the fact that he was eagerly awaiting the upcoming trip to Hogsmeade and could hardly lie still in his bed for all the excited anticipation, nervousness, and impatience to get going already. The quaint little wizarding village had never been much of an attraction to Draco; with his aristocratic upbringing, he had come to expect more out of life than the meagre ‘entertainment’ and everyday existence of Hogsmeade. But one did need to shop now and then.

   This time, however, he was the first Slytherin out of bed when the first light of dawn should be trickling in through the windows of the castle above, hastily dressing even as Miles, the earliest riser, was getting out of bed.

   “Is there a fire somewhere?” he wondered bemusedly as Draco zoomed past him on his way to the common room.

   “I’m hungry,” Draco replied shortly, not having the patience to engage in conversation.

   That was both truth and excuse baked into one delicious half-lie; he _was_ hungry, but not for food. No, he wanted something that only a certain messy-haired, aggravating, annoyingly short Gryffindor seemed to be able to give him—whatever that was. He still had no idea what it was he actually sought, but his body seemed to think that he could only find it by sticking his tongue in Harry’s mouth.

   When the raven-haired boy finally showed up to take him to breakfast, Draco was climbing the walls and several of his friends were watching him with a rather perplexed wariness. They were probably anticipating an attack at any moment, the scared sods.

   “Where the bloody Hell have you been?!” he growled accusatorily. “I’ve been waiting for over an hour! Surely I don’t have to remind you that I have an insane amount of business to take care of today—and you have the nerve to arrive late!”

   The Gryffindor looked taken aback by the onslaught, his eyebrows rising significantly up his forehead. “Sorry, Master, there was a … I had to … Angel needed me, and I—”

   Draco snorted disdainfully. “At least you know your place. Very well, I’ll let you off easy this once, but don’t you dare do it again!” Pleased to see his servant bowing apologetically, he sneered and ordered him to escort him to breakfast. Before leaving the common room, however, he swirled back with an angry, demanding roar: “Miles! Goyle! Hurry it up and get your lazy arses going before I Fiendfyre them!”

   Exchanging a knowing look, the targeted boys rose from their seats and followed. “Seems like someone’s woken up on the wrong side of the bed,” Miles commented in an aside to Goyle, who replied with a series of non-descript grunts and a small shake of the head. Miles nodded. “Yes, you’re right; he does look like he hasn’t slept at all.”

   Anger turning into white-hot fury, Draco once more whirled around at them like a tornado coming down on an old farm house. “Perhaps the two of you would prefer to live out the rest of your lives as footrests?!” he bellowed, beside himself with indignation.

   They smartly took the cue and fell silent.

   In actuality, he would have liked to tell them both to piss off so he could have Harry to himself right away, but keeping up appearances was just as important. Draco Malfoy was expected to be surrounded by his followers at all times, so that was what he would give them if it ensured the continuation of his dalliance with Potter.

   After a hasty breakfast, they set out as one of the first groups cleared at the gates. Not surprisingly, Granger and her little snot machine were already on the road when they embarked, and a group of overly excited third-year Hufflepuff girls were making a ruckus further up. Well, the first time going had been special, so he guessed he should not judge. Too hard.

   On the way, Miles kept a pleasant enough conversation going, including not only Draco and Goyle but Harry, as well. It was apparent that the raven-haired boy was nervous and self-conscious about that, but eventually he seemed to relax somewhat. Now and then, he stole a glance at Draco, making him burn with anticipation under those intense emerald eyes.

   At Tomes and Scrolls, they all went off to their preferred sections, Miles on a mission to find the rarest, most ancient history and art books while Goyle perused the titles in Flora & Fauna. Draco was more interested in advanced potion making, unusual alchemy recipes, and his guilty pleasure; poetry.

   “Poetry?” Harry asked next to him while he moved along the shelves in search of something he had yet to add to his extensive collection. “Really?”

   Draco felt his cheeks beginning to burn with embarrassment. “Poetry happens to be a very refined and complex art form,” he informed the ignorant Gryffindor, putting on a superior air. “I enjoy intricate metres and clever stylistic devices employed to convey something about the world we live in, or about ourselves. If you find that hard to belie—”

   He fell silent when he felt Harry’s warm hand searching its way inside his cloak and up his abdomen from behind, his body crowding Draco against the bookcase in front of him. He had not even noticed that the other boy had moved in behind him.

   For a moment, everything stood still, and Draco drew a hasty, trembling gasp of a breath, reflexively leaning into Harry’s body; that sexy, beautiful body he wanted so badly—

   “No!” he exclaimed, shaking himself out of his temporary entrancement and taking a decisive step away from the Gryffindor. Frantically looking around them to make sure they had not been seen, he hissed: “Potter, what the bloody Hell do you think you’re doing? We’re in public, for Salazar’s sake!”

   The raven-haired boy merely grinned at him mischievously and advanced on him anew. “Yeah, but no-one else is around,” he pointed out in a low, suggestive voice, deliberately placing his hand high on Draco’s thigh, so close to his crotch that he could practically feel the other boy’s hand on his now growing and hardening dick.

   Feeling uncomfortable and apprehensive, he just wanted to tell Harry to back off and wait until they were safely under the Cloak, but at the same time he loved that hand on his thigh. And when that hand began to caress the inside of his thigh, he could do nothing but mewl submissively.

   It was not the only time Harry stole a touch; he seemed to be taking every opportunity presenting itself to him, helping himself to some of Draco’s most intimate and sensitive spots right there in the open. Whenever they were alone in an aisle, his hands were there, driving Draco crazy with desperate need. He just wanted to drag that little tease into a dark alley and have his way with him, not giving a single fuck if someone walked in on them …

   Sometimes Harry even went in for the touch when there were other people nearby, as long as the body part he was targeting was out of sight. At first, that made Draco extremely unsettled—he did not want to be pleasured in public!—but as the day progressed, he found that it was strangely exciting to engage in such naughty activities when there was an imminent risk of being caught. And he loved every single touch, every single quick kiss, lick, or nibble …

   Looking at Harry, it was clear that the Gryffindor was turned on by their dangerous game, especially when he stealthily slid his hand onto Draco’s bum, hidden by the billowing cloak, and squeezed his buttocks while they were standing right next to some chatty Ravenclaws.

   In the late morning, when the group split up to go their separate ways, Draco and Harry went into the Three Broomsticks to have some steaming hot Butterbeer and take a break from the throng. The inn was full, as usual, but Draco hardly noticed the other people around them; he only had eyes for Harry, holding those fiery emeralds hostage until he could get what he wanted.

   Even though they probably should not, they carefully played footsie under the table, both unable to resist the pull of the other as the tension steadily grew between them. He silently cursed the fact that he had chosen to sit across from Harry; if he had been next to him, he could have had his hand in his lap right now …

   “Hey, Drake, having a pint?” an all too familiar and hated voice suddenly broke into their moment, and Draco reluctantly retracted his foot as the dark-skinned boy sank into the chair next to Harry, closely followed by Crabbe and Dursley.

   Pointedly rising from the table, he said, “We were just leaving,” even though they had half their Butterbeers left. Harry seemed a bit confused by that, too, because he remained sitting, looking from Blaise to Draco and then back again. “Today, slave!” he therefore roared heatedly, and stomped off towards the door without waiting for a reply.

   Thankfully, Harry soon stumbled out of the inn with all of Draco’s bags hanging from his hands, getting stuck in the doorway for a few seconds because of them. He looked so hilarious, struggling to get out, that Draco had to fight to maintain a straight, irritated face.

   He impatiently shifted his weight from one foot to the other for the benefit of their onlookers. “Are you planning on keeping me waiting all day, Potter?”

   The raven-haired boy let out a convincingly aggravated groan and retorted: “Maybe I should so you’ll tire of standing around and leave me the bloody well alone.”

   “You do not speak to your master like that, you filthy half-blood, good-for-nothing serf!” he exclaimed, keeping up a steady stream of expletives and demeaning monikers while they trudged off down a narrow path leading in behind the nearest buildings and creating a shortcut to J. Pippin’s Potions.

   As soon as they had got out of sight, however, Draco whirled around towards Harry and grabbed his face with both hands, pressing a ravenous, lusty kiss on his lips. “The Cloak,” he murmured against the Gryffindor’s lips, fixing his emerald eyes with his own.

   Sparks of desire seemed to be conveyed between their intense gazes, and Harry did not need to be told twice. Only disentangling himself long enough to pull the Invisibility Cloak out of his bag and wrapping them in it, he was soon back in Draco’s arms, snogging him with a fervour that matched Draco’s own.

   He did not know how long they stood like that, holding each other, devouring each other, only that a significant amount of time passed before they broke apart. Suddenly, he was just aware that Harry was placing an Undetectable Extension Charm on his bag and stuffing all their shopping into it. Then he slung it over his back with a knowing smile and gestured towards the street above.

   Under the protection of the Cloak and a Muffling Spell, they walked among their fellow students and the village folk, free to do whatever they wanted without being seen or heard. Whenever they needed to buy something, they emerged long enough to handle their business.

    The day was filled with spontaneous snogging, sensual touching, and frustrating but simultaneously wonderful teasing, just as Draco had expected it to. But what he had not expected was how much he would enjoy spending time with Harry, simply being with him—talking and commenting on the lively Hogsmeade day, even laughing together on a few occasions.

   Neither had he anticipated to feel Harry’s hand tentatively brushing against his in the midst of the crowd, his fingertips lightly sliding over his skin, making it burn pleasantly. Meeting the other boy’s eyes, Draco thought it seemed like he was asking if this was all right; as if he was testing the waters to see if a shark would jump up and bite him.

   When Draco did not say anything and did not pull his hand away, Harry decisively curled his around it in a gentle grip, still without breaking eye contact.

   Stunned, Draco looked down at their hands, now entwined, and wondered at how natural it felt. To be holding his hand. He knew that this signified something different, something deeper than mere lust and physical need and that he should feel worried about that, but he could not muster the strength to withdraw his hand. Soon, he realised that he did not want to withdraw it; he _wanted_ to have Harry’s hand firmly gripping his, _wanted_ to have Harry’s thumb softly caressing his fingers.

   It felt nice.

   Walking through the quaint streets of the wizarding village, holding hands with Harry Potter, Draco felt more at ease than he could recall ever feeling. On the inside, a pleasant, tingling warmth spread its many arms and hooked into every nook and cranny of his being.

   The warmth stayed with him when they said goodnight that evening.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Since he could not go to Hogsmeade with Cedric openly, Harry had made plans to go together with Noelle and spend Sunday morning with her. Seeing Luna hanging out with Goyle the previous day had made him long for the easy, relaxed, companionable times with her that he had always treasured so dearly, and a plan had taken form in his mind.

   Without letting on anything, he walked around with Noelle on his side, visiting as many shops as possible and making sure that they were seen by as many people as possible. Then, before they were to split up and find their respective friends, he took her to Madam Puddifoot’s Tea Shop, directing her to a table in the middle of the cosy café where they would easily be seen.

   Almost instantly, he noticed some people staring at them, and he had to hide a smile when they started to gossip among themselves. The plan seemed to be working.

   By the time they hugged each other goodbye outside the teashop, the rumour was sure to be spreading like wildfire among the inherently nosy Hogwarts students. It was not fair to use Noelle the way he just had, but he was sure that she would understand. He just wanted Luna back in his life, and if their ‘breakup’ was going to stand in his way, he would just have to create a new relationship for himself. Besides, it would deflect attention from him and Draco, as well.

   When she went to meet up with Stella and Ginny, Harry steered his steps out of the little village, as if his business there was done now. Trudging along, he wondered what the blonde was doing at that moment. Was he annoyed because he had to do everything himself today? Was his day running smoothly, with him keeping busy or hanging out with his mates, or was he bored, lonely? Was he thinking about Harry at all, maybe wondering what he was up to over in Hogsmeade?

   Did he miss him like Harry missed him?

   Soon, he convened with Cedric on the road halfway to Hogwarts, enveloping them in the Cloak and the same spells he had used with Draco the day before.

   Cedric looked stunning in new, silky sienna robes with mustard lapels and ornate embroideries on the chest piece that made Harry feel extremely underdressed in his dark jeans, turquoise jumper, and brown leather jacket.

   “You look great,” the taller boy murmured, giving him an approving once-over. “You picked well.”

   Blushing embarrassedly, Harry said, “I don’t know … You look incredible, though.”

   Cedric’s face lit up with a brilliant, elated smile, and he brazenly took Harry’s hand in his. “I’ve been longing for this ever since Wednesday,” he confided as they set off together. “It’s amazing to finally have a proper date, don’t you think?”

   Harry was a bit slow to respond. His mind was swimming with connotations of the word ‘date,’ trying to find the right expression to give and the right emotions to feel. “Yeah, it’s great,” he finally managed to nod, nervously lowering his gaze.

   There were so many expectations bubbling below the surface of Cedric’s smile, so many ideas about this ‘proper date’ of theirs that it scared him somewhat. What if he could not live up to them all—or even part of them? What if he would disappoint him?

   Eventually, when they had been wandering around Hogsmeade for a while, Harry began to relax and just enjoy Cedric’s company. They talked comfortably, going from store to store, looking at everything and occasionally embracing or kissing. It was nice, unforced, but at the same time he could not help but recognise the differences between this date and the previous day’s.

   With Draco, there had been a constant stream of tingling electrical currents running between them at every touch, and there had been an ever-present, forceful _need_ to be close to him, to feel him in his arms, to snog him … He had been inevitably pulled towards the blonde, unable to resist his soft lips, slender, toned body and intoxicating scent. Now, with Cedric, he was perfectly content with holding hands and was not feeling any particular need to kiss him or touch him.

   He felt calm and safe with Cedric, whereas everything was chaotic and spontaneous with Draco. And when Cedric bent down to kiss him, he responded more out of habit than out of pleasure; there was none of that heat that he experienced with the blonde. It was simply something he was expected to do, and he was complying.

   With Draco, on the other hand … His heart beat faster in excitement, pumping boiling blood through his body, making him warm all over and releasing a legion of butterflies into his chest and stomach. With him, everything else melted away, leaving nothing but them and their growing lust for each other.

   Turning Cedric’s hand in his own, he thought back to the breath-taking, tingly, terrifying moment he had grabbed Draco’s hand. He had been so afraid that the Slytherin would push him away in affront and disgust, that his hand would be rejected, yet he had been determined to stand his ground. And when Draco had kept his hand in a firm grip, he had been lightheaded with euphoria.

   Holding his hand had been one of the best experiences of Harry’s life.

   Why was it so different to hold Cedric’s hand? Why was there no spark, no heat, no itching nervousness arising from being skin to skin? It was no different from holding Hermione’s hand, or Luna’s, or Angel’s. And as that thought hit him, it began to dawn on him.

   His feelings for Draco were changing, growing; his feelings for Cedric were not.

   He had up until then thought that whatever was happening between him and the blonde could be attributed to hormones, but now he was not so sure anymore. If that were true, should not he be experiencing the same reaction in the vicinity of other blokes, too? If it had simply been a case of him being a horny teenager, should not he have felt at least marginally aroused when snogging Cedric?

   But it was only Draco that made his blood boil and his body ache with yearning.

   As much as he tried to shake those thoughts and dedicate himself to the moment, Harry frequently found himself imagining what the blonde was doing and feeling a successively stronger longing to run back to the castle to search him out. He had not been away from him for this long in what felt like forever, and his skin was beginning to crawl.

   How could one become so dependent on another person’s presence?

   Luckily, Cedric did not seem to notice anything off about him but had a grand time, to all appearances, which relieved Harry. The last thing he wanted was to destroy his dream day.

   When they got back to the castle that evening, Harry sat down to a game of Exploding Snap with Angel. It had been ages since they had spent some time together, just the two of them, and he felt really bad about that. _That will change now_ , he promised himself. _I’ll make sure to include her more._

   “How are things going with school?” he asked her, and jumped involuntarily when the card he had just put down exploded.

   Angel laughed at him, and he soon chimed in. “You should have seen your face!” she said, her green eyes glittering with mirth.

   “You watch yourself, young lady, for I intend to win this round and every round after it!” he warned teasingly, wagging a finger in mock admonishment.

   While they were playing, she told him how Caelum had forgotten to use his soft gloves when handling the Puffapod beans they were studying and had wound up with tiny flowers sprouting from the palms of his hands. She shook her head at how he had been forced to spend the rest of the day in the Hospital Wing getting them removed.

   “But that is how you learn,” Hermione pointed out soberly, having just joined them. She had brought her knitting and was working on a royal blue jumper for Oliver, whom she had placed in a highchair on her left.

   It did not take long before Ginny had sat down on Oliver’s other side, playing with him and doting on him while communicating with him in baby talk. “You are so lucky,” she said to Hermione after some time. “I wish I had a son, too.”

   Chuckling ironically, Hermione replied: “Careful what you wish for. It’s more than just cute baby cheeks and play, you know.”

   Ginny scrunched up her freckled face in an undecipherable grimace. “I don’t care; if I could have such an adorable little babe, I would take all the nappy changes in the world!”

   Shaking her head, Hermione went back to her knitting, occasionally smiling fondly at Harry and Angel’s interactions.

   Merlin, he had missed this, just sitting with his friends, hanging out without expectations; without pressure. He had become so wrapped up in his unlikely affair with Draco that everything else had suffered. Now that he was away from the blonde’s influence, he could see that; in the Slytherin’s presence, all semblance of logical thought fled.

   Upon thinking of Draco, his heart began to beat faster and a warm, fluttery clump of longing formed in his chest. Maybe he could sneak in a short visit before bed …

   A pecking at the window behind them caught their attention. A small owl was sitting on the wide stone sill outside, eager to deliver the message that had been entrusted to it.

   Instantly recognising the little creature, Hermione let out a happily surprised squeal and shot up from her seat to let it in. Fishing up a snack for Viktor’s short-eared owl, she took the letter it was carrying and began to read it before she had even sat back down. Her eyes flew over the lines on the parchment, her face lit up in excitement and positively glowing as she took in her fiancé’s words.

   Watching her with an affectionate and somewhat envious smile, Harry said, “You really love him, don’t you?”

   Hermione blushed almost shyly. “Yes, I really do,” she confirmed, and her warm, brown eyes were sincere and upfront when she met his gaze over the table. “I never thought it possible to feel so much, so strongly for another person, but my family has proved me wrong.”

   He followed her gaze as she looked at her small son and realised that it was true: Hermione already had a family of her own, people to take care of and that took care of her. To his utter bafflement, he found that he envied her that.

   To have someone to love and that would love him, passionately and unconditionally …

   The portrait hole swung open and let in a group of boys returning late from Hogsmeade, among them Neville and Dean. Catching sight of her boyfriend, Ginny swiftly sprang from her chair and ran up to him, taking his hand in her both and almost bouncing next to him.

   “Hey, there,” he said, amused at how happy she was to see him.

   “Dean, I’ve been playing with Oliver and he’s such a dear—we absolutely _have_ to get a little one of our own, we just have to!” she bombarded him with, speaking quickly so he would not have time to interrupt her before she had got out everything she wanted to say. “Just imagine how lovely it would be, you and me and our own baby, our own family to love and care for!”

   Dean’s face had become hard and closed, clearly not fond of the picture she was painting for him. “We are not having this discussion again,” he growled, then turned to leave.

   The stubborn ginger followed him, and their raised, angry voices travelled back to the assembled friends as they launched into the same old row as on a hundred prior occasions.

   Neville stared after them, then shook his head in resignation that Harry mirrored.

   Angel, on the other hand, simply held up the card deck with an inviting smile. “Wanna play Exploding Snap with us, Neville?”

   Gratefully, he sat down next to Harry and allowed Angel to deal him in.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco had been spending his Sunday in the art studio, working on a new painting to follow up on his latest landscape. As always, the finished artwork had been sent to the Manor for storage.

   He always took his refuge to the studio when his mind was racing and there was a need to distract from reality; he could always lose himself in the canvas and the brush strokes. This time, though, it was proving more difficult than usual to suppress the thoughts that persisted in breaking through the surface.

   Without seeing the canvas before him, letting his hand work on instinct, he sorted through the events of the past few days. Walking through Hogsmeade with Harry, snogging under the Invisibility Cloak … the simultaneously nervous and tingling sensation of holding his hand … the bold teasing that the Gryffindor had exposed him to, touching him in public, and how much he had loved it, thrived on it …

   His skin burned in anticipation of the next touch, of those confident, manly hands on his naked body again … of those hot lips and that wet, tickling tongue on his neck, his earlobe, his mouth …

   _Harry_ , he thought, once again bewildered by this new way of referring to the raven-haired boy that used to inspire such righteous anger and hatred in him. When exactly had he stopped being ‘Potter’ to him? And did Draco’s thinking of him as ‘Harry’ signify anything particular?

   Or was it just that Harry had become one of the gang, as Miles had pointed out the other day?

   Shaking himself out of his pondering, he made an effort to focus on his painting instead.

   And grew completely cold inside.

   Because the image that met him was not another landscape, as he had intended it to be. No, what he had been working on all day was in fact a true-to-life portrait of Harry bloody Potter. And not only that, but the raven-haired boy in the picture was smiling beatifically at him with brilliant emerald eyes that glowed and glittered in an expression that could only be described as tender.

   The brush fell to the floor with a hollow _clink_ as Draco felt bile rising from his stomach, threatening to make him sick.

   “Oh, God …”


	12. You Make Me Hungry for You

 

Monday mornings were usually the least favourite mornings in any student’s life, but this particular one was even worse for the Slytherins. Draco was in an awful, dangerously unstable mood, angrily stalking the Slytherin Dungeon and snarling at anyone who dared speak to him. Miles and Goyle were clearly wondering what was wrong with him, but knowing full well what the repercussions of testing his patience would be when he was this tetchy and agitated they kept a healthy distance to him.

   He had not been able to sleep because of that bloody painting. As soon as he had recovered from his initial shock, he had burnt the abomination and hid himself away behind the curtains of his bed, fuming and humiliated.

   _Malfoys do not need others; we do not depend on_ anyone, _for anything_ , he thought fiercely to himself as he managed his morning toilette. _Malfoys are supposed to govern their own lives and rule their own circumstances—is that not what Father has taught me since I was too little to even ride a broom on my own?_

   He was getting too close to Harry—no, _Potter_ ; he needed to think of him as ‘Potter’—and he was losing control. Unsettled and on the verge of blowing a gasket, he resolved to do something before it was too late.

   Coming back from the showers, he found Crabbe sloppily packing his trunk by haphazardly throwing books, sweets, and articles of clothing into it. Side-tracked, he asked: “What are you doing?”

   Laboriously straightening up to his full 6’2” height, Crabbe peered over at him with his beady, black eyes, a film of perspiration lending his forehead an unnatural sheen. “Blaise told me he’s moving back into his room, so I have to pack my stuff so he can have his bed back,” he explained impassively, shrugging.

   In that moment, it was as if something just snapped inside Draco. So furious that his nostrils were flaring as though he had embraced his name on a biological level, he stormed out of the room and further down the hall to the dorm that used to be Crabbe’s. Seeing Blaise standing over his bed, stuffing a stack of books into his bag, he positively shouted: “You are _not_ moving back into _my_ room! You are _never_ sharing a room with me ever again, you hear me?!”

   Blaise turned towards him in a lazy and indifferent movement that irked Draco immeasurably. Raising a questioning eyebrow, the dark-skinned boy said, “It’s not only your room, you know. Sharing and learning to get along with your peers is part of the education here at Hogwarts, is it not?”

   “It doesn’t matter if they turn the whole world into a great, lifelong ‘learning experience’—I am _never_ sharing anything with _you_!”

   Scoffing sarcastically, Blaise disclosed: “You don’t have a choice, Drake; I spoke to old Lucius, and he informed me that you don’t have the authority to order room switches, so you can’t keep me out of my own room just to suit your own fancies—”

   “Suit my own fancies!?” Draco expelled, not believing what he was hearing. “You almost bloody ra—” He forcefully slammed his mouth shut as he realised what he was about to yell for everyone to hear. Took a deep breath to calm himself somewhat. The room was empty but for them, but that did not mean that nobody was standing outside, listening in.

   God be damned, everything was getting out of hand …

   _Control_ , he told himself, inhaling deeply through his nose and exercising old relaxation techniques. _Take control—stay in control._

   “You know, I’m really sorry about that …,” Blaise almost whispered, his voice sounding oddly small and regretful. “If there is anything I can do—”

   “You can stay in here for the duration of this school year and spare me the sight of you,” Draco cut in, feeling his fury increasing in volume again at the pitiful guilt in his former friend’s demeanour. He simply could not stand the sight of him.

   Without any remorse, himself, he turned on his heel and left, simultaneously turning a deaf ear to Blaise’s continued string of clumsy apologies and excuses.

   Besides, he had a bone to pick with his father.

   On his way through the corridor outside the hidden entrance to the Slytherin Dungeon, he came upon Potter, who started to ask why he did not have his book bag with him. Draco just ignored him and passed him by, caring neither to explain himself nor to take notice of the Gryffindor’s bewilderment.

   The minuscule first-year boy stationed outside the entrance to his father’s office stammered out an incoherent, almost inaudible warning that the Headmaster did not want to be disturbed, but he ignored that, too. Pulling out his wand, he cast a spell that was taught to all faculty members in case of emergencies, making that day’s password appear in front of him in the form of thin, deep-blue smoke that evaporated in seconds.

   Thus successfully passing the gargoyle and ascending the revolving staircase, he mentally prepared the onslaught he was going to subject his father to. Before he had even put both feet inside the threshold, he was letting his old man have it. “How dare you undermine my decisions and rescind them without consulting me?!” he bellowed, beside himself with wrath.

   Lucius simply leaned back in his luxurious, comfortable chair and folded his hands on his desk when Draco came storming in. Instead of looking alarmed—or at least irritated—a smirk formed on his stern, pale face. “Ah, I take it you have spoken to young Zabini,” he drawled superciliously.

   “‘Spoken’ is too kind a word, and most definitely too kind a word to use for our exchange if you don’t remedy this immediately,” Draco responded in the same manner, defiantly raising his chin and drawing himself up to his full height.

   Unfortunately, his father was utterly unfazed. With an eyebrow raised in amused scepticism, he said, “And you presume to think that you have the right to make demands of me? Don’t make me laugh, son. I have already made another student your personal servant; I am not about to allow you to dictate your own childish wants whenever the impulse strikes you. There are rules to follow, and they apply to you, too.”

   Draco’s jaw dropped. He had expected his father to give in with but a little persuasion; after all, it was much easier for him to give Draco what he wanted than to take up the conflict and try to school him. And old Lucius was known for taking the easy way out whenever there was one.

   Shaking with fury, he fisted his hands at his sides. “You don’t understand,” he objected, feeling desperation steadily rising from deep within him, threatening to break through his carefully held control. “He can’t be allowed to stay in the same room as me!”

   It was apparent that Lucius was losing his patience now. Staring up at his son with a warning glare, he inquired: “And what exactly is it that I don’t understand, Draco? Hm?”

   He opened his mouth to reply, but shut it just as quickly again. Felt his cheeks burn with hot humiliation.

   He could not tell him. He just could not. Of course he could not—why had he ever disillusioned himself into thinking that he would be able to explain this to his father? That he would ever be able to make him understand _anything_ about him?

   Not willing to embarrass himself any further, he left the Headmaster’s office, telling himself that he was not fleeing; it was a question of self-preservation—of keeping face.

   This had not been a good start to the day, and since that prick Potter was so conveniently right by his side 24/7, he unscrupulously took out his frustration and anger on him. At first, the raven-haired boy merely seemed concerned for him, which only made Draco more incensed. By second period, though, his own temper was starting to get the better of him, and he snapped back every time Draco attempted to bite his head off.

   As the morning progressed, their bickering evolved into a full-blown row, even going so far that Professor McGonagall threw them both out of Transfiguration for disturbing the class.

   “Now look what you’ve done!” Draco yelled accusatorily as they were left in the first-floor Transfiguration corridor. “My perfect record has now been marred thanks to you!”

   “Me?!” Potter bristled, his eyes so huge with incredulity that he looked like an owl with that wild, black hair of his. “You’ve been going at me all day! I’ve done _nothing_ ; this is on you, so go lament your sodding marred records to a mirror, why don’t you!”

   Blood boiling and adrenaline rushing through his veins, Draco lost what little sense and self-control he had had left. “Oh, you’ve done nothing, have you?! Your very existence is a boil in my arse that I can’t get rid of, and now I can’t even get any peace when I’m on my own anymore!”

   Rolling his eyes, Potter resorted to sarcasm. “Wow, that imagery is just astounding, Malfoy—10/10, would simile again,” he spat out, half turning his back to Draco while shaking his head in disbelief. “This is what I get for trying to help you …”

   “ _Help_ me?!” Draco positively shrieked, not giving a single fuck that his voice was cracking like that of a pre-pubescent choir boy. “I don’t need your bloody help! I _hate_ you and your sickening obsession with butting in and trying to make everything better for everyone else. Well, guess what? Nobody bloody wants you to step in like some self-appointed Messiah and mess up their lives worse than they already were before you interfered. I don’t need you, Potter—you hear me? I don’t fucking need _anything_ from you!”

   Startled and visibly shaken, the Gryffindor just stood there and stared at him for an eerily silent, drawn-out moment, his mouth hanging open as if all the words he wanted to utter lay so heavily on his tongue that his jaw could not take the weight of them. Then he suddenly shut his mouth, clenching his jaw, his breath-taking emerald eyes cold and dark and his shoulders stiff.

   Without another word, he turned and left, stalking off in the general direction of his dormitory. Draco pointedly set off in the opposite direction, not really having any clear idea of where he was going, just that he needed to get far, far away from all this buggery.

   “—such a drag that Hogsmeade weekend is already over … I wish they would allow us to go every weekend; four times a year is nothing!”

   He stopped before reaching the fork in the corridors ahead of him when he heard the voices coming towards him. It sounded like a group of girls on a free period who were gossiping about the weekend in the village, and he was just about to turn back the way he had come to spare himself the tedium of listening to them when Potter’s name caught his attention.

   “No, I haven’t heard,” one of the girls said, her curiosity piqued. “What did he do?”

   “Well, you know how he dated Loony Lovegood and she totally dumped him?” a second girl blathered. “Well, it seems like he’s over her now, ‘cause he totally took Noelle Longbottom to Madam Puddifoot’s yesterday and I hear their date was really hot! I’m serious—he was looking at her with these cute puppy-dog eyes the entire time they were there!”

   Something ice-cold and hard stabbed Draco in the chest. Madam Puddifoot’s? _Yesterday?!_ So, this was why he had been so adamant on getting the day off, was it? So he could go on a fucking date with that bottom-dwelling Ravenclaw slapper?

   “Oh nooo, he’s taken again?!” a third girl moaned miserably. “I was hoping he’d ask me out! Why do the good-looking ones always get taken?”

   Pissed off, with his heart beating furiously in his chest, his head swimming with dark thoughts and unwanted images of Harry in the arms of some girl, and a cold lump in his solar plexus, Draco stormed off towards Gryffindor Tower.

   How dare he go out with someone else?! Not that he wanted Harry to go out with _him_ —he definitely did not want to be in any sort of relationship with that messy-haired prat—but he should at least know not to snog anyone else!

   And a _girl_?! He would _not_ take being replaced by a fucking girl!

   Bursting through the portrait hole, calling for Potter, he had an insane notion that he would find him shagging the harlot, that his talk about ‘not being ready yet’ had only applied to Draco. So when he slammed open the door to Harry’s dorm room, heart pounding painfully and erratically with dread, he felt a cathartic relief when the raven-haired boy confronted him in the middle of the carpeted floor.

   “What is the meaning of you going on a date with that Longbottom wench?!” he demanded hotly, towering intimidatingly over the short Gryffindor.

   Meeting his gaze head-on, Harry made no effort to disguise his own anger. “I’ve already warned you not to call her that. Or were you hoping to get punched again?”

   Draco would not take that bait. “Answer the question!” he shouted, beside himself with strong, aching emotions that he could find no names for.

   The other boy glared at him in incredulity and disbelief. “Are you seriously coming here making demands after what you just said to me?” he wondered.

   “What I just said to you was to answer my question, and you evading it isn’t exactly reassuring!”

   Harry scoffed and shook his head. “You really don’t know what you’ve done, do you?” he stated, and when he looked up at Draco again his normally lively, brilliant green eyes were hurt, anxious.

   Starting, Draco uncomfortably shifted his gaze, trying to find something else to focus his eyes on so he would not have to see that pained expression. There was something in him that twisted and withered when Harry was hurting; he hated seeing him aggrieved. Feverishly searching his memory for something that might have upset him, it started to dawn on him that he had let his mouth run again.

   _I hate you … I don’t need you, Potter …_

   Fidgeting, he muttered, “I told you, I don’t mean what I say when I’m angry … Still, I’m not the one who’s done something _truly_ bad here …”

   He dared to peer at Harry again—and raised his eyebrows in bafflement.

   The raven-haired boy was grinning wryly at him!

   “You’re jealous!” he exclaimed, notably pleased with himself for making that observation—or for inspiring such an emotion in him?

   Appalled, Draco promptly protested: “I am not jealous! Jealousy implies that there is something underlying, feelings that I am certainly not possessing. I merely think that I should be quite enough for you. Why would you need someone else, too, when we … I mean, the snogging is really good … isn’t it?”

   He felt his cheeks burning and quickly turned away in discomfort.

   He jumped when a warm, assertive hand grabbed his arm and pulled him into an even warmer embrace. Even though he still had not got his answer, simply being in Harry’s arms gave him an instant sense of calm. Closing his arms around the shorter boy’s back, he bent forward and buried his face in the crook of his neck. Drew a deep, relaxing breath.

   “It wasn’t a date,” Harry murmured straight into his ear, and the tickling of warm air caressing his skin made pleasant shivers travel through him. “I took her there to make it _look_ like a date.”

   Draco frowned, but at the same time he held the Gryffindor tighter. His breathing was becoming heavier and his manhood was awakening thanks to the intimacy. “Why would you want it to look like you’re dating that … girl?”

   A wet tongue tip on his earlobe … hot lips against the side of his neck …

   He gasped involuntarily when Harry loosened his tie and undid the top-most buttons of his shirt in order to gain access to his nape.

   “Two reasons,” the raven-haired boy divulged without lifting his mouth from Draco’s prickling skin. “If people think I’m going out with Noelle, they won’t be looking too closely at my interactions with other people, which means it’ll deflect attention from us. I was going to tell you first thing this morning, but then you were pissed off … Plus, I miss Luna.”

   A chuckle escaped Draco. “Are you sure you’re not a Slytherin, Potter?” he teased.

   Harry briefly pulled back so he could meet his gaze. With a lopsided grin, he said, “I guess I’ve picked up a thing or two from my present company. And FYI, the snogging isn’t good; it’s brilliant.”

   To prove his point, he sought out Draco’s mouth and kissed him sensuously.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco Malfoy jealous—who would have thought?

   But the knowledge of that warmed Harry, because it was indisputable proof that the blonde was feeling something more than mere physical desire for him, no matter how adamantly he denied it.

   That morning’s events had made him realise just how much his feelings for the Slytherin were changing, for hearing him saying that he hated him had broken something vital inside him. Therefore, it had been wonderful, exhilarating, heartening to make up with him, to hold him and be held by him; to feel him inhaling his scent, to snog him …

   If it had not been for the fact that people would miss them during lunch if they were not there, they would happily have slipped away somewhere right away. As it were, they went to the Great Hall, showing the world carefully strained and indignant masks, to wolf down some steak-and-kidney pie before taking their refuge to an empty classroom.

   His entire body was alive and buzzing with a fluttery, tingly warmth originating from his ecstatically speeding heart when Draco immediately grabbed him and, with the hunger of a starving man, kissed him with his tongue thrusting deep into his mouth. All thoughts faded from his mind, his senses refocusing themselves on the tiny sphere they were encapsulated in. The world shrunk to the blonde’s strong arms holding him in a possessive embrace; to his roaming hands, his hot breath mingling with Harry’s own, his heady scent; to his platinum hair falling down into Harry’s face, tickling the bridge of his nose …

   Draco _was_ the world. There was no other place as alluring as Draco’s arms.

   Without even reflecting over what he was doing, Harry took a firm grip of the Slytherin’s green-and-silver tie and jerked it off in one violent movement. The blonde cried out in surprise, briefly looking at him with an inquiring wrinkle between his brows, before a mischievous grin flashed over his full lips. Harry gave him no chance to speak; he needed those lips on his again, harder, so close that he could taste the other boy’s desire.

   Fingers fumbling for the buttons in the blonde’s shirt, he grunted with satisfaction when he finally managed to open it, exposing the smooth-skinned, muscular chest. He could feel his achingly hard cock twitching excitedly as he put his hands on Draco’s bared chest, touching him to his heart’s content.

   When he circled his thumbs over the tiny, rigid nipples, Draco broke free of their long, passionate kiss to let out a cry of pleasure. Desperate with desire, he pushed Harry back against a nearby table so that he was practically half-lying over it. Helping himself, Draco began to undress him, flinging the crimson-and-gold tie across the room and attacking the button-down ferociously.

   Harry took the opportunity to kiss the flawless, pale skin of the blonde’s neck, collarbone, chest—anything he could reach. He loved the frustrated, need-ridden moans escaping Draco’s throat when Harry let his tongue slide sensually over his hot, perspiring skin. It was amazing, arousing, astounding—that he could make someone else sound like that.

   Struck by a bold impulse, he leaned in and licked the other boy’s nipple, cradling it with his lips and sucking slowly, teasingly.

   “ _Fuck!_ ” Draco exclaimed, unconsciously grinding his crotch against Harry’s hip. Then he grasped Harry’s head with both hands and directed him up to his own face, placing hot kisses on his chin, lips, cheek, jawline, and ear. “I have to have you,” he then whispered into his ear.

   Harry’s heart skipped a beat. Caressing the blonde’s cheek, he replied: “Not yet.”

   The frustrated groan that followed, expelled right into his ear like that, almost made Harry cum in his pants again.

   Starting to extract himself, Draco declared: “Then I have to go wank.”

   But Harry grabbed onto his arm and stopped him. “Don’t,” he demanded.

   Frowning, the blonde blinked down at him. “What?”

   Rising from the table, filled with a boldness he had not known he possessed, Harry drew him closer to him again, leaning in to teasingly, sensually nibble on his earlobe exactly the way he loved it. When Draco once more groaned in frustration, he murmured: “Wouldn’t be much fun if you just stopped being this deliciously horny, now would it?”

   Stiffening against him, the blonde breathed: “What are you saying?”

   “I want you like this, desperate and crazy with lust … So no wanking until I say so.”

   A simultaneously disbelieving and amused grin was forming on the Slytherin’s lips as he turned to look at him. “Are you ordering me about, Potter?” he asked, sounding both astonished and impressed. He gave Harry a once-over with a new respect in his hungry silver eyes.  “That’s fucking hot,” he said, his voice husky, and proceeded to snog Harry with renewed desperation.

   Harry would have gladly stayed there all day, all night, doing nothing but teasing more delicious noises from the blonde, but eventually fourth period drew near and they reluctantly had to let go of each other. Not taking his eyes off Draco, he said, “We’d better go separately, in case anyone sees us exiting this room. I’ll go first; give you some time to cool off.”

   Under the Slytherin’s intense, sexually starved stare, he buttoned up his shirt and swiftly tied the tie around his neck before heading for the door. With one last look at the gorgeous boy, he went out into the chilly corridor and steered his steps towards the exit that led to the greenhouses.

   He felt slightly lightheaded; dazed. Being with Draco like that—enwrapped by his warm, masculine body—was intoxicating, addictive. The more time they spent together, the more he wanted to be with him, as if no set amount of time was enough. Even this short while away from him was making Harry ache with longing to see him again.

   “Hey, Harry,” Miles greeted when he was about to head outside, making him jump.

   He had not noticed the blond, indifferent Slytherin joining up with him. Now he forced out a quick smile. “Hey, Miles. Was lost in thought there …”

   His companion looked down at his chest for a few uncomfortably drawn out seconds before saying, “Your tie is on backwards.”

   Quickly looking down at himself, he noted that the side with the clothes tag was indeed up. Blushing as he realised that he must have overlooked that detail while hastily dressing under Draco’s scrutinising gaze, he sloppily pulled it off and retied it the proper way. “I, er, took it off during the lunch break to breathe easier,” he blurted, mentally face-palming himself for his imbecility.

   Miles did not seem too convinced, and when Draco entered Greenhouse 7 five minutes after them with his hair standing on end and _his_ tie in a loose, half-hearted knot, the sharp-minded shorter blonde narrowed his eyes in suspicion. Draco _never_ went anywhere looking less than immaculate, and his hair routine was so elaborate and lengthy that Harry fell asleep when he had to be present for it.

   Why the fuck had not he at least combed it down before going to class?! It was like shooting up a beacon saying ‘I’ve just been shagged!’

   Gazing from Draco to Harry and back again, Miles enquired: “What have you been up to?”

   To the others’ surprise, Draco yawned articulately and stumbled to the left, supporting himself by practically hanging over Miles’ shoulder. “I fell asleep,” he murmured, sounding plausibly drowsy and talking into his mate’s stylish, wavy hair. “Had a headache an’ think I mixed up the dosage …”

   The shorter Slytherin gave a start, then turned to Harry with an explanatory expression. “This has happened before; he gets an adverse reaction to Painkiller Potion if he takes even a drop too much.” He rolled his eyes at the blonde, who was still clinging to him. “Guess he’ll need babysitting for the rest of the afternoon …”

   “Brilliant,” Harry grumbled, rolling his own eyes as if he, too, thought the idea of having Draco clinging to him was the most tedious and bothersome task in the world. In actuality, he was a bit envious of Miles and longed for Draco to lean on him instead. It was a burning, itching need in him, and he just wanted to grab the blonde and pull him to him.

   He got his wish when Professor Longbottom instructed them to pair up to replant the Venomous Tentaculas; Draco slumped down on the floor next to Harry with his head resting on his shoulder while Harry knelt in front of the flowerbed. His cheeks were warm with excitement, and he hoped that no-one would notice just how happy he was to pseudo-cuddle the blonde.

   “Why’d you not fix your hair?” he whispered while working.

   “I forgot,” Draco hissed back, sounding offended. “I was sort of distracted, you know?”

   Harry hid a proud grin behind a dragon-hide glove. “Well, you know what happens when you’ve been naughty,” he teased, in a slightly sadistic mood. “You get punished.”

   Stiffening against him, Draco seemed to sense what he had in mind, for he uttered several quiet objections to which Harry turned a deaf ear. Instead, he took full advantage of his would-be lover’s feigned lethargic state and stealthily touched him anywhere he could reach without calling attention to them.

   This continued for the duration of the afternoon, and the blonde sometimes could not help but moan or growl quietly against his shoulder.

   Harry enjoyed himself far too much that day.

   When it was time for Draco’s art class, the Slytherin had apparently quickened from his ‘Painkiller Potion overdose,’ for he was standing behind the easel vigorously working on an abstract painting, careful to stay out of range of Harry. Now and then, he wriggled his hips slightly, as if there was something in his nether region that was causing him discomfort …

   Watching him in amusement, Harry shook his head, silently chuckling to himself.

   Since he wanted to spend more time with his sister, he had invited Angel along to the art studio, and she was currently sitting next to him, happily drawing and talking about her roommates. Luckily, Professor Frank Longbottom was a sweet and accommodating man and did not have any problem with Angel being there.

   Draco, on the other hand, was not too keen on the extra company. He kept glaring over at them, snorting haughtily and putting on airs. Harry did not care, though; he still assisted the Slytherin whenever he was given an order, so the blonde had nothing to complain about.

   As the lesson drew to a close, Angel rose from her seat and brought her drawing over to Draco, offering it to him with an innocent smile on her young face.

   “What is that?” he asked, reluctant to touch it, as if he was afraid that it was poisoned.

   “I made you a drawing,” she told him brightly. “Look, it’s us at our picnic. D’you remember?”

   Exasperated, he sought out Harry’s gaze and said, “For some reason, this thing seems to think that I would care if it presented me with an offering, but it is sadly mistaken. Rein it in, please.”

   Rolling his eyes, Harry muttered, “She’s not a horse, Malfoy.”

   “It makes no difference to me what it is or isn’t.”

   “Just take the bloody picture, will you?”

   “I don’t want the picture—you take it.”

   “But I made it for _you_ , Draco,” Angel cut in insistently, and she did not stand down, which surprised Harry. Normally, she would be too shy and scared to be this pushy—or even to approach someone she did not know well to begin with. Could it really be that she had taken a liking to the Slytherin Princess? Despite his many … personality shortcomings?

   But he must have some good points, too, because he did take the picture and gingerly put it between two books to prevent it from crinkling when he put it in his bag.

 

 

* * *

 

 

That prick was always by Draco’s side nowadays; always walking next to him in the corridors, always sitting next to him in class, always hanging out with him in the evenings … Why was he allowed such privilege? He was supposed to be a bloody servant—suffering through a punishment, for Salazar’s sake!—but it rather looked as though Potter had been promoted to mate. Maybe even Draco’s new _best_ mate?

   Why did it have to be _Potter_ of all people?

   If it had been anyone else—even Flint!—he would not have grumbled as much, but a bloody Gryffindor?! Those brawn-over-brains adrenaline junkies with their hero complexes were even worse than the bloody Hufflepuffs!

   Blaise glared daggers at the invader’s back in History of Magic class that Tuesday morning. Professor Moody’s lecture about notable wizards in Antiquity did not interest him at all; his head was seething with various images of an incapacitated Potter, thenceforth unable to tail Draco like a lovesick puppy.

   It just did not make sense. Now Draco was leaning on him when he was exhausted, laughing with him when he made one of his inane jokes, sharing a two-seat couch with him when he was relaxing in the evening …

   Potter was _always_ there.

   If Blaise was going to get a chance to win Draco back—re-earn his trust and friendship—he would have to grab the bull by its horns, because the pig-headed blonde sure was not going to extend any invitations. And for every step closer the blonde took to Potter, he took one step farther away from Blaise.

   With a cold determination, he walked right up to Draco before DADA started and plastered a winning, confident smile on his face. Not taking any notice of the messy-haired Gryffindor, who was currently preparing to set up the blonde’s table, he carelessly pushed in, shoving the servant out of his way. “Here, allow me,” he said, starting to pull books out of the satchel onto the table.

   A loud _thump_ followed by the grating scraping of wooden furniture against the worn plank floor came from behind him, and half a dozen voices spoke out at almost the same time.

   “Fuck!” the Gryffindor exclaimed, sounding as if he was in pain.

   “Harry!” both Miles and a few of Potter’s housemates called out in alarm, one of which came running over to their side of the classroom.

   And, “What the bloody Hell do you think you’re doing?!” Draco lastly demanded with an appalled expression on his face. He had half risen from his seat and was staring at something behind Blaise.

   Turning around, he noticed that the raven-haired eyesore had tumbled into a table across the aisle and fallen over. He was now hunched on the floor, rubbing his back with a scrunched-up grimace. That tall Gryffindor Chaser, what’s-his-face, was kneeling by his side, anxiously asking him if he was all right.

   So, that was what the sudden commotion was about, was it?

   Giving zero fucks whatsoever, Blaise simply turned back to Draco—his attention always being on Draco first and foremost—and blanched when he saw the blonde’s black-eyed, red-faced murderous mien.

   “I would very much appreciate if you would refrain from breaking my servant,” he snarled in an ominously low voice, “I do have need of him, you know.”

   Feeling ire rise from deep within him, Blaise took a decisive step towards Draco, squaring his jaw and sticking out his chin. “Not if you have me,” he declared boldly, and he meant it; he was prepared to grovel and serve, if that was what it would take for him to get Draco back.

   These past two and a half weeks that he had been away from the blonde had been pure hell. Partly because he had never been separated from Draco that long in the twelve years that they had known each other, partly because it simultaneously meant getting estranged from most of his other classmates, as well. But foremost it was because his entire being ached and itched irritably when he was not allowed to be close to his mate.

   He missed their secret rendezvous in the Room of Requirement, missed the intimacy of being joined with Draco, of feeling him filling him up to the very core. Missed the euphoric ecstasy of getting to be the one Draco chose to take his sexual relief from—of getting to feel him reach climax inside of _him_ , Blaise, and no-one else.

   The thought of that being over, possibly forever, made his chest contract in pain and longing and made him feel lonelier than he ever had before.

   Watching the blonde, it was quite clear that he was not getting any; he was more irritable than usual, moody, and so agitated that he was practically climbing the walls. He also had that oddly starved look about him that he only got when he was sexually frustrated. So, if he was not seeing anyone else, then why had he ended things with Blaise?

   Why could not they have gone on sharing their late evenings, their pleasure? Would it really have been that bad to continue fucking Blaise when he so obviously needed release?

   Was he not good enough for the Malfoy heir all of a sudden?

   That seemed absurd, especially considering the present company the blonde was keeping … So if Potter could be good enough for Draco, then by Merlin, Blaise could, too! He was not going to give up and allow Draco to see him as dead; he would be the mindless Inferi that always kept coming back for more and never got demoralised!

   And he would get rid of that bloody Gryffindor. Somehow. Because Blaise was the person that rightfully deserved that place at Draco’s side; in his eyes, in his bed—in his heart.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Getting flung back-first into a table was not exactly a good start to the day, and Harry had to admit that he was a bit tetchy after that; so was Draco. What was strange, though, was that neither of them was annoyed with the other but rather gave each other some space to breathe while they both shot angry glares at their mutual target, Zabini.

   “I almost wish I hadn’t sacked him from the team so I could fucking kill him with a Bludger,” Draco muttered as Harry was walking him to Quidditch practice.

   Harry himself opted out of watching, though, preferring instead to slink away to Sirius’ hut for some much needed one-on-one time with his godfather. When he stepped over the threshold and saw that Remus was in the kitchen, he realised that having them both there was to his advantage.

   “To what do we owe this unexpected visit?” Sirius wondered, a teasing smile playing on his lips.

   “Not to say that it isn’t a pleasant surprise,” Remus cut in with a knowing wink, coming to sit at the table with them.

   Pouring some tea for himself, Harry deliberately shrugged in indifference. “No particular reason, other than wanting to spend some time with you,” he proclaimed, returning Remus’s knowing smile.

   His godfather studied him in silence for a moment, then he laughed and slapped his hand down on his shoulder in a matey gesture. “I believe the company you keep nowadays is starting to rub off on you,” he commented, and there was a certain note of pride in his warm voice, a hard-to-place sparkle in his grey eyes.

   Feigning ignorance, Harry skilfully steered their conversation onto a different course, making sure that they would never stay on the subject of Draco and the other Slytherins for more than a brief breath. On the inside, though, he wondered if his godfather was right. Was he getting influenced by the Slytherins, picking up some of their habits and characteristics? It would not be that surprising, seeing as he did spend most of his time with them.

   After talking about insignificant everyday stuff for about thirty minutes, he finally asked what he had come there to find out. “You’ve been together for quite a long time now, haven’t you?” he began, making it seem like he was inquiring about their relationship merely because they were continuously giving each other long, loving looks and other small shows of affection.

   “Yes, ever since we were in school ourselves,” Remus confirmed, gazing off into the distant past with a happy, nostalgic smile.

   “I had my eye on Remus here since fourth year, knowing that he was special,” Sirius bragged unabashedly, “but being the tease that he is, he played hard to catch for almost two years before finally giving me a chance.”

   “Oh, please!” Remus instantly objected. “I thought it was one of your usual stunts to make everyone laugh. How was I to know that there was actually some seriousness in there, far beyond all the practical jokes and clownery?”

   Harry laughed at their familiar banter, recognising that what they had was very special, indeed; something that any person would be indescribably lucky to find in their lifetime. Heart beginning to pound faster and harder in his young chest, Harry knew that he wanted what they had, that he wanted to find that one person with whom he could spend the rest of his life, going through every single day as happily as they so obviously did.

   Unbidden, an image of a horny, frustrated Draco came to him, and he could feel the sensation of the other boy’s arms around him at the same time as his intoxicating scent enveloped him. Even the phantom memory had Harry inhaling deeply, involuntarily closing his eyes in bliss. He almost raised his hand to slide his fingertips over his lips, recalling the elation of snogging the blonde.

   “So it’s been twenty-six years now,” Sirius finished, not having taken his eyes off his partner even once during their mutual account.

   Shaking himself out of his temporary reverie, Harry forced himself to focus on the older men once more.

   “Twenty-six lovely years,” Remus agreed, leaning in to kiss Sirius tenderly.

   “Wow,” Harry said, genuinely impressed with their devotion to each other. “Did you just know, or did you sort of grow into it? That you wanted to be together for the rest of your lives, I mean.”

   He tried to keep as neutral an expression as he could when he in fact was on the edge of his seat, eagerly awaiting their answer.

   Chuckling in what almost sounded like sarcasm, Remus shook his head and said, “It is not that simple, I’m afraid.”

   “Not that simple?” Sirius echoed in mock offense. “To me it was very simple! I came back after the summer in France and saw you standing there by the gate, smiling almost shyly at me, and I just knew. I knew that everything had changed.”

   Blushing, Remus looked down at his tea cup, absently fingering the handle. “Yes, well … it was a momentous event for me, too, seeing you that day …” He met Harry’s gaze with an almost unsettling directness. “You see, Harry, I knew that I wanted Sirius, but his behaviour and airs made me question his intentions and held me back from fully allowing myself to fall for him. Not until he proved to me that he truly meant what he said about me being the one.”

   Frowning, Harry granted that Remus might as well have been talking about Draco and him. The blonde’s haughty airs and tendencies to act superior and unaffected had Harry wondering what he actually wanted out of their clandestine meetings, too, and the apparent parallels were uncanny. He had long suspected that he fancied Draco, but he was unsure about the wisdom in getting involved any deeper with the blonde.

   He wanted him, though; Merlin, how he wanted him! Every fibre of his being seemed to be screaming for the Slytherin’s body pressed up against his—his heat, his smooth skin, his hungry mouth …

   Despite himself, Harry felt how his body awakened with irresistible, pulsating desire, and all he could think about was hurrying off to the Quidditch pitch so he could be reunited with the blonde.

   _This is bad_ , he thought with dread, _this is really fucking bad._

   He wanted to ask his godfather and Remus what it felt like—to be with that one special person that was meant for you and you only, to be close to him, to be touched by him—but even though the words crowded each other on the tip of his tongue, he could not find his voice. How could he ask about those things without implicating himself, without betraying his own situation?

   No, what they had already told him would have to do; he would have to figure out the rest for himself.

   Ten minutes later, he strolled down to the Quidditch pitch to pick up Draco after his practice, still lost in thoughts and hardly aware of his surroundings. Since he arrived just as the session ended, the blonde should still have been on the field with his teammates, but his pale countenance was nowhere to be seen.

   Walking up to Miles and Goyle, he therefore called out: “Where’s Malfoy?”

   Turning towards him with surprised faces, Goyle shook his big head while Miles said, “You don’t know? Draco got injured and was sent to the Hospital Wing twenty minutes ago. I thought he’d send for you—”

   Fear welling up from the pit of his stomach, Harry ran off towards the castle before the short blonde had even finished his sentence. He did not care about his would-be mate’s hollow-ringing words, nor about causing a scene; all he cared about was making sure that Draco was all right.

   _Please, please let him be all right!_

   Rushing into the infirmary in a wild panic, heart pounding and breath wheezing out of his constricted throat, he swung his head left and right in search of the familiar platinum head. “Draco!” he shouted, afraid of what he might find.

   It was eerily quiet for what felt like hours.

   Then the cherished voice called out: “Potter?”

   Flooded with relief, he immediately hurried off towards the voice until he found Draco sitting on a rumpled bed, bare-chested and with his left arm in a sling. His face was slick with sweat, his silvery hair damp, and his complexion a waxy, greyish pale. He seemed to be in a lot of pain.

   Stopping a few feet from him in uncertainty, Harry was suddenly not quite sure what to do or say. He wanted to ask what had happened, if he was all right, if it was bad—wanted to tell him how worried he had been when he learnt of his injury, how scared he had been. But no words came out.

   Finally, the blonde sighed resignedly and said, “Don’t stand there and stare at me like some rabid fish; it’s only a dislocated shoulder.”

   “And a broken collarbone—snapped clean off, if I might add,” Madam Pomfrey put in, buzzing in from nowhere as abruptly as English summer rain, looking mighty nettled. Tutting, she added: “Boys these days … I swear, you will be the death of me, never bothering to be careful …”

   Draco rolled his eyes. “It’s not like I did it on purpose; it was that bloody Queensbury who took over Zabini’s spot, not even capable of minding his own limbs, let alone refraining from flying straight into other players …”

   He cried out in pain as Madam Pomfrey began to administer some of her strongest healing magic. Harry watched, wincing in sympathy for the Slytherin as his collarbone was forced back into its intended position. She continued to tut over him, grumbling about negligent children always breaking bones and hexing each other.

   “Now, drink this,” she urged, briskly pushing a foul-smelling potion into Draco’s hands before collecting her things. “You will have to stay here and rest for the remainder of the evening—mending bones is no easy business.”

   After downing the potion, the blonde drawled: “If I have to stay in this sorry place, you could at least give me a private room.”

   Rolling her eyes in a perfect Malfoy imitation, the matron impatiently waved her hand, impelling him to come with her. With the injured blonde and a still-stumped Harry in tow, she led them to a short corridor at the back of the infirmary and ushered them into a small room featuring a hospital bed, a narrow wardrobe, and a bedside table. “Here, then,” she huffed, “this should suffice for young Mr. Malfoy’s needs. Now rest! I will be back to check on you in a few hours.”

   Without waiting for any replies, she bustled off, closing the door loudly behind her.

   Left alone with Draco, Harry once more felt that strange uncertainty creep up on him and gluing his tongue to the roof of his mouth. Not daring to look at the object of his fancy, he remained just inside the door, nervously fidgeting with the sleeve of his robes.

   “I heard it,” Draco suddenly said.

   Jolted out of his insecurity, Harry gazed up at him, noticing that he was not looking at him, either. “What?” he wondered, confused.

   The silence stretched out between them for a few long seconds before Draco replied. “That you called me ‘Draco,’” he mumbled, his voice so low that Harry had to strain to even hear it, but when he did, he started. _Bollocks!_ His renewed worry proved unnecessary, though, for the blonde went on: “I rather liked it, to be frank.”

   There was no word powerful enough to adequately describe the elated, heart-fluttering, lifting sensation that washed over Harry in that moment. He could not even grasp it, himself. Earning the right to call Draco by his given name—and for the blonde to actually _like_ when he used it!—was astonishingly exhilarating. Somehow, he had managed to get accepted by the Slytherin, to be allowed one step closer to him on a personal level.

   And that was when he realised that he wanted to learn more about him, to know everything there was to know about him, and to get closer to him than he had ever been to another person before. They were already close when they engaged in their secret snogging sessions, of course, but that was not the kind of closeness he desired.

   No, he wanted a deeper, more personal intimacy with Draco, one that reached beyond the mere physical and into his very core.

   It was an otherworldly revelation, one that both shook him and nonplussed him. Always having been a habitual person, suddenly feeling such a strong and impossible-to-ignore craving was not only new but daunting. He did not know what to make of it.

   But when the blonde shifted his position slightly on the bed, propped up on a couple of pillows as he was, and winced in pain and discomfort, Harry’s body knew exactly what to do. Without a single thought in his head, he hurried over to the bed and sat down next to him, leaning in to kiss him before he had even quite landed on the mattress.

   Taken aback, Draco did not immediately respond, but once the shock had settled, he eagerly opened his mouth and captured Harry’s tongue with his own. His hunger seemed insatiable, but Harry was only too happy to attempt to satisfy him.

   Due to Zabini’s stunt that morning and their subsequent sour moods, they had not been snogging between classes as usual, so now that they were finally in each other’s arms again there appeared to be no limit to their passion.

   Burning with this new need to be closer to Draco, Harry even considered ignoring his uneasiness about sex and letting the blonde have his way with him. His body sure seemed to be ready for it; perhaps the mind and heart would follow suit if he but humoured it? And maybe, just maybe, he would feel close enough to the Slytherin if they were joined completely.

   As the kisses deepened further and hands began to roam freely over hot, tingling skin, he did in fact feel like he wanted to go through with it; to be skin-to-skin, to feel Draco pushing inside him, giving him everything of him. To be made part of Draco and become one with him.

   To be Draco’s.

   Letting himself get carried away on the waves of desire that washed over them, he carefully positioned himself on top of the blonde, mindful of his mending shoulder and collarbone. “I’m so happy you’re all right,” he murmured against his milky-pale skin. “I was so scared when Miles said you’d been taken to hospital.”

   Snorting and speaking straight into Harry’s mouth, Draco said, “You are such a bloody nancy, Potter.”

   Ignoring him, Harry silenced him by placing hot, wet kisses on his throat, following his slender, muscular body downwards, painting his chest with lips and tongue to a wonderful accompaniment of the other boy’s heavy breathing, moans, and approving encouragements. He wanted to hear the blonde moan his name, wanted to hear him shout it in the heat of passion.

   He stayed at Draco’s right nipple, thriving on his partner’s increased arousal and felt his own body teeming with lust when the blonde squirmed and arched his back underneath him. In a mischievous mood, he tenderly placed the nipple between his teeth and nibbled.

   “Oh, fuck, Harry!” the blonde exclaimed, spontaneously grabbing his hand and directing it down to his crotch.

   Despite just having pondered the possibility of going all the way with Draco, Harry froze now that the moment seemed to have arrived. Heart beginning to pound with fear rather than excitement, he instinctively snatched his hand away and stared down at the other boy with wide eyes.

   He was not ready yet. He could not do it, could not stand the thought of baring himself so completely—of being as vulnerable as a person could be before another.

   Seeing his anxiety, Draco fired off a smile that might have been intended as reassuring but that looked more sarcastic and patronising to Harry. “Don’t worry, I won’t expect anything,” he said, sounding benevolent and uncharacteristically kind; almost caring. “Just touch me a bit. Please; just a little bit.”

   When he begged like that, Harry found that he could not deny him his wish. And if he only wanted to be touched for a time … That should be all right, should not it?

   Gathering his confidence anew, he reached out his hand and tentatively placed it on the blonde’s crotch, eliciting an approving groan from him. In wonder, he slowly, experimentally caressed the general area, feeling a pleasant shiver of electricity passing through him and continuing on into Draco as his fingers came upon the distinct hardness of his erection.

   He had never touched another boy’s dick before, and it therefore surprised him how exhilarating it felt. Yet, at the same time, it was a strange sensation, feeling the blonde’s manhood jerking and pulsating under his fingertips, as if it was happy to make his acquaintance.

   Judging by Draco’s escalating moaning, that seemed to be exactly the case—and it emboldened him. No longer afraid, he unbuttoned the blonde’s trousers in a few swift movements and stuck his hand inside, eager to reduce the amount of fabric separating him from this fascinating limb.

   “Harry!” Draco breathed, unconsciously rising to receive him.

   Massaging and sensually stroking the Slytherin’s rock-hard member through the thin, tight pants, Harry began to see the endless possibilities of teasing him and provoking him into an ever greater state of frustration. He loved every sound that Draco made, every flutter of his closed eyelids, every nuance of his ecstatic expression, every fleeting smile of pleasure that broke through his usually reserved façade.

   And he fucking _loved_ when the blonde said his name with his voice all husky from arousal. It made Harry heady with numerous unnameable emotions that all swirled around inside his chest, irresistible and undeniable. He wanted to hear it again—and again; he never wanted it to stop.

   As if Draco had been privy to his thoughts, he suddenly exclaimed: “Say my name!”

   Eager to comply, Harry murmured: “Draco.”

   Letting out an exhilarated moan in response, his partner asked: “Again.”

   “Draco,” he said, louder and more suggestively this time, and slowly bent down until his mouth was right above the other boy’s crotch.

   Trembling under him, the blonde opened his eyes and stared down at him. “What are you doing?” he wondered, sounding as if he did not know if he dared to believe what was happening.

   Slowly, mischievously blowing hot air onto his cock through the pants fabric, Harry teased: “Can’t you feel that, yourself? I’m having fun with you, Draco.” And then he proceeded to lick the blonde’s manhood from root to tip as deliberately and sensuously as he could.

   That had an instant, gratifying effect on his partner, who cried out in surprise and utter ecstasy while desperately moving his hips and throwing his head back. “You have no idea how fucking much I wish you would just suck it right now,” he growled, practically thrashing under Harry’s tongue.

   Taking that as a challenge, Harry opened his mouth and grabbed Draco’s cock between his teeth, pretending to be preparing to push it inside. He grinned inwardly when he was rewarded with a frustrated outcry.

   “I can’t take this,” the blonde declared, starting to gingerly get up. His face was enticingly flushed, his breathing heavy, and his silver eyes dark with desire.

   A pleasant shiver ran down Harry’s spine when their gazes met, shooting intense sparks between them. Instead of letting Draco up, he cut off his escape by pressing his lips to his.

   The blonde fumblingly pushed him away. “No, I have to take care of this,” he objected huskily. “I can’t—”

   “Yes, you can,” Harry cut in naughtily, kissing him deeply anew.

   Once more, the slippery Slytherin broke free, and when he looked at Harry there was something close to worry in those mesmerising, grey pools. “Harry, I’ll end up forcing myself on you if we don’t stop now,” he insisted, “and that is something I would never want you to have to experience. It’s—”

   He fell silent, stopping himself so abruptly—turning away in shame—that a bad feeling began to come over Harry. “Draco …” _Has someone forced themselves on you?_ he wanted to ask, but did not dare to in case the blonde would retreat back into his shell. He did not want to risk their budding relationship by crossing a line that might not be possible to re-establish.

   _He’ll tell me when he’s ready to_ , he told himself.

   Therefore, he softened his expression and settled for a reassuring smile. “I know you would never do that. You’re not like that; you’re a good person,” he murmured tenderly, brushing an errant strand of platinum hair away from his partner’s eye.

   Draco gave a start and looked visibly baffled. “You … you really think so?” he wondered in disbelief.

   His smile widening due to the affection he felt for this boy at that moment, Harry nodded. “Yeah, I really do.”

   Mollified, the blonde lay back down against the pillows, and Harry lay down next to him, protectively putting his arms around him. For the next hour or so, they just lay like that, with Harry holding him and gently stroking his hair until he fell asleep.

   Gazing down at the snoozing Slytherin in his arms, Harry smiled and burrowed deeper into the warm, safe embrace. He was finally getting closer—and it felt amazing. If it were up to him, he would stay like that forever, but unfortunately he had to sneak away before Madame Pomfrey found them like that or the rumour mill would have a field day.

   Leaving the Hospital Wing, he found Luna waiting for him outside the door, and his heart skipped a beat in excitement and relief when she directed her usual dreamy, accommodating smile at him. “Everyone’s talking about your ‘date’ with Noelle,” she informed him knowingly. “That was a clever ruse, Harry, and I think we might be able to see each other in public again.”

   Instead of replying—for mere words were inadequate to describe the way he felt—he threw his arms around her and hugged her close, burying his face in her long, curly hair. It was such a comfort to finally have her back that it did not even bother him that the earflap of her hideous straw hat was chafing against his cheek.

   Laughing delightfully, Luna gripped him in her surprisingly strong arms and lifted him off the floor, swinging him around in a wobbly circle. “I’m happy, too,” she ensured him when she had put him down again. “Nothing is the same without my Harry.”

   “And nothing is the same without my Luna,” Harry said, his voice embarrassingly thick with emotion.

   Her turning up like this was the best surprise anyone could ever have given him. Certain people were simply necessary to breathe, and not having them around was akin to not being able to use one’s own legs. (And Harry would know, because he had broken both of his when he fell off his broom during a Quidditch match in fifth year.) Luna was right up at the top of that list, as were Angel, Hermione, and Cedric.

   An image of the blonde sleeping peacefully in his arms flashed before his eyes.

   As if reading his mind, Luna chose that moment to ask: “Have Draco and you consummated your relationship now?”

   Jerking in shock, he at first could not find his voice. Then, he croaked out: “Eg-excuse me?”

   She laughed at his aghast expression. “You’re glowing, Harry. It’s clear that something’s happened.”

   Blushing furiously, he turned down his gaze. “Yeah, well, not _that_ ,” he muttered, feeling extremely uncomfortable to be discussing this with her. It was private, something that was between Draco and him; it did not concern anyone else. It was theirs.

   “It’s just a question of time,” Luna insisted with a teasing glint in her eyes, and winked at him.

   “Before they lay their hands on me?” he spat out, quoting the Depeche Mode song _A Question of Time_ , since Luna had used the exact words from a line that was repeated throughout the song.

   Putting her arm around his shoulders, she whispered teasingly into his ear: “The only one laying his hands on you will be Draco. Now, run along; you do not enjoy Prefect privileges like I do, and Filch is in a bad mood. You don’t want your lover to find you ripped to pieces in the morning, do you?”

 

 

* * *

 

 

As usual, Harry was nowhere to be found during the entire day, seemingly disappearing into thin air as soon as a lesson ended and resurfacing shortly before the next one started. How could you be together with someone if they were never around?

   Cedric had been hoping for a chance to get Harry alone—at least after school—to make sure that he was all right after that Slytherin Chaser Zabini shoved him into the ancient wooden furniture in the DADA classroom. He had seen how Harry had massaged his lower back now and then during the day, had seen his stiff, pained gait.

   It made him want to fetch a Quaffle and have a Chaser showdown with that bloody bully and not stop until he felt the same pain that he had so carelessly inflicted on Harry.

   Unfortunately, the Gryffindors’ last lesson of the day was Herbology on Tuesdays; when he had finally made it back up to the castle, the Slytherins had left their Charms class long ago.

   _Merlin, isn’t it bad of me that I’m even starting to think of Harry as a Slytherin now?_ he thought, feeling a stab of guilt. Harry himself would _not_ appreciate being considered a Slytherin; he would be pissed off beyond belief.

   At 10:15, Harry returned from ‘work,’ looking tired but impishly pleased. There was a secretive half-grin playing on his thin lips, an expression that had become the new normal for the raven-haired boy. Cedric wondered what could make him smile like that.

   What was his secret?

   He was putting newly-washed clothes that had just been brought up by some house elves into his trunk when his boyfriend entered their room, initially not seeing Cedric there. When he grew aware of the fact that he was not alone, his face lit up in happiness, though. “Cedric, hey!” he greeted.

   Feeling reassured, he returned the smile and went up to him with the intention of hugging him and stealing a quick kiss or two before they were joined by the others. But even as he stretched his arms around Harry, he picked up that foreign scent again; that same cologne that mystified and confused Cedric.

   Since he had already gone in for the hug, he could not just retract his arms without causing suspicion, so he forced himself to go through with the embrace even though his insides seemed to be twisting in on themselves sadistically. If it had been perfume, it could have come from any of Harry’s close female friends—he frequently hugged Hermione, for example—but this was a man’s scent. There also seemed to be a faint musk underlying the cologne, further fuelling Cedric’s growing suspicions.

   He did not want to distrust Harry, but his behaviour of late did not exactly make for a reassuring image. And with him so distinctly smelling like some other boy, Cedric did not know what to think and much less what to do or how to deal with it. Or was he just being paranoid again?

   With a lump forming in his throat, he extricated himself from his raven-haired boyfriend and steered his steps towards the door. “I need some fresh air,” he excused himself before leaving.

   Guilt stabbed at him anew when the other’s bewildered gaze followed his retreat, but he simply could not stay there right now.

   On his way through the common room, he caught Hermione’s voice coming out of a side room and froze at the mention of Harry’s name.

   “—nowhere to be seen,” she finished in a frustrated tone of voice.

   “Yeah, but you forget that he’s an adult,” her roommate, Julie Parkes, put in. “He can take care of himself. You shouldn’t worry so much, Hermione; he’s not your son, you know.”

   Cedric silently moved closer in order to hear the conversation better.

   Inside the room, Hermione sighed loudly, and her irritation was plain to hear when she went on: “Yes, I know … but it’s just so frustrating! He disappears every break and comes back with this smug, enigmatic look, never telling me anything or answering any of my questions … I mean, doesn’t he trust me anymore? And what is up with Loony Lovegood showing up to distract me whenever I try to follow Harry to see where he’s going? What is her problem?!”

   Cedric started. Luna was deliberately keeping Hermione from finding out where Harry went off to? The pensive, aloof Lovegood girl seemed to be showing up everywhere nowadays—and always to pose an obstacle for anyone who tried to get to the bottom of the mystery of Harry Potter.

   Why? What could she possibly gain from that? What could _Harry_ gain from that? Like that whole business of Luna posing as his girlfriend, for example; why had they allowed people to think that of them, when all they had needed to do was to deny the rumours? Harry had never explained that deal to Cedric, and that was starting to seem more and more suspicious.

   Mind spinning with a myriad of concerns, he exited Gryffindor Tower and set off at random, not bothering where he was going. Thankfully, no-one could reprimand him for being out after hours, so he need not worry about running into Filch. Being a Prefect had its advantages.

   When he was turning the corner into the corridor that led to the Hospital Wing, he almost walked straight into another late-night stroller and gasped. “ Sorry, I didn’t hear you coming, are you all—” he began to apologise, but fell silent when a whiff of cologne blew his way in the draughty corridor.

   _That_ cologne.

   His heart immediately started to pound painfully in his chest as his eyes fell on the tall, slender, silver-blond frame of the person who had come close enough to Harry for his scent to rub off on him. He looked tired and drawn; maybe slightly paler than usual. Pained.

   “Watch where you’re going, Diggory,” Malfoy warned, drawing himself up in an attempt to tower over the three inches taller Cedric. “You’re lucky you’re a Prefect or I would have had to take ten points from Gryffindor.”

   Snorting arrogantly and shaking his head as if he could not believe the other boy’s insolence, the Slytherin pushed past him and continued on towards the main staircase.

   In a state of shock, Cedric remained where he was for an undeterminable time.

   Malfoy. Of course. The puzzle pieces were finally falling into place now. Harry’s improved mood had coincided with the ceasefire between him and the blonde, suggesting that they had reached some sort of understanding or that their relationship had somehow changed.

   Harry and Malfoy … spending all their time together … A lot could happen between two people when they were in close quarters for such an extended period of time every day.

   And suddenly he understood how Luna fit into the puzzle, too. She was not only a close friend of Harry’s—she was also a very good friend of Malfoy’s. Draco Malfoy, son of the Headmaster and sole heir to the most rigidly conservative pure-blood family in Great Britain, had a reputation to keep and a name to live up to. A legacy to carry out. If he was gay or bisexual, he would surely want to keep that a secret in order to stay under his severe father’s radar.

   Luna was not protecting Harry at all—she was protecting _Malfoy_. Slytherins always had each other’s backs, no matter whom or what stood in their way, and Luna had already proved on numerous occasions that she was among the slyest of the bunch.

   Cedric had assumed that she had claimed to have broken up with Harry, taking the blame for his temporary breakdown, to alleviate the shame and embarrassment the raven-haired boy felt over it. But considering how unhappy Harry had been about being separated from her, it seemed unlikely that he had had anything to do with it. And thinking back, the rumour that had travelled around the school was that Malfoy was behind the breakdown.

   Seeing as Harry had returned to Gryffindor Tower from serving the Slytherin at the time, it was highly likely that the rumour was in fact the truth. Malfoy had later been the one to coax Harry out of his semi-catatonic state—perhaps by apologising for whatever he had done? And looking at it from that perspective, it made a lot more sense for Luna to claim responsibility.

   Come to think of it … every time Harry disappeared, so did Malfoy. They were either seen together or not seen at all.

   Could they really be secretly dating?

   When he had summoned the courage to go back to their mutual dorm room, he found Harry still alone, lying on his back in bed, texting nimbly on his mobile. Cedric hesitated only a moment before sitting down next to him on the edge of the bed. “Where’s everyone else?” he wondered.

   “Dean’s staying with Ginny again and Neville’s down at the greenhouses watching some flowers that only bloom in the middle of the night around this time of year,” Harry replied without looking up from the screen. “And I think Ron is infiltrating Hufflepuff tonight.”

   Cedric chuckled. “From one burrow to another,” he quipped with a lopsided grin. “Guess it’s safe for me to join you, then,” he added as a test to see how Harry would react.

   Somewhat to his surprise, the raven-haired boy immediately scooted over to make room for him. Pulse rising and giving birth to a new hope that he desperately wanted to cling to, Cedric undressed and slipped in under the duvet.

   Harry finished his message, then put the phone aside and snuggled up to Cedric, putting his head on his chest. He still smelled of Malfoy’s cologne, and the wild speculations still flying through Cedric’s mind could not be denied anymore. “What have you been up to tonight?” he asked as indifferently as he could, as if he was simply making small talk.

   A drawn out sigh escaped the raven-haired boy. “I’ve been tutoring Malfoy in Muggle Sports,” he complained. “He’s forcing me to do that every evening after the pitch gets free ‘because he doesn’t want to be humiliated in class.’”

   That took Cedric aback. “Really? And … you’ve been doing that long?”

   The other boy was silent for a moment, then said, “I think since after the second lesson. Usually it’s all right, I guess—pretty straightforward—but tomorrow’s lesson will be on rugby, so you can imagine trying to teach _that_ to Malfoy of all people while he’s going all ‘Don’t you dare touch me!’ every time you get within three feet of him.”

   That gave Cedric something to ponder. Rugby was an incredibly physical sport, so it was possible that Malfoy’s cologne had wound up on Harry simply because they had been forced to practice tackling each other and suchlike …

   Maybe he _was_ just being paranoid, then. Harry was even lying in his arms, willingly sharing his bed with _him_ and no-one else. Did not that count for something?

   Settling in and allowing himself to relax, he kissed the top of Harry’s tousled head, closed his eyes and awaited sleep to envelop them in their own little bubble.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The two hours that Harry was in Care of Magical Creatures class were nigh on unbearable to Draco. It had gone so far that Wednesday had become the most hated day of the week.

   Although he still did not like to admit it, the clumsy, messy-haired Gryffindor had become an integral part of his life and being away from him gave birth to an ever-increasing yearning that was impossible to fully satisfy. But all his reluctances aside, Draco had finally come to accept their new circumstance, and he would not want to change a thing.

   Well, except maybe the fact that Harry kept forbidding him to masturbate, because his bollocks felt ready to burst at the slightest touch.

   Yes, definitely change that.

   “Hi, Draco!” a small, chipper voice suddenly exclaimed next to him and made him jump.

   That annoying thing that Harry called his sister stood on his right, beaming happily at the sight of him. He could not for his life understand why it liked him—children hated him just as much as he hated them, for Salazar’s sake!

   “What are you doing, Draco?” it asked, sounding nauseatingly curious as it blinked up at him with its huge emerald green eyes. It irked him that they were almost identical to Harry’s.

   Shifting his feet impatiently, he gazed up and down the first-floor corridor in the hope of catching sight of someone or finding some other excuse to leave. Why had he felt the need to go to the library now of all times?

   “I’m not doing anything that concerns you,” he muttered, vaguely aware of a wheezing noise coming from the thing.

   When he turned his attention back to it, he noticed that it had gone waxy pale and damp with cold sweat. Its eyes were so wide with fear and its breathing so shallow and quick that he worried it might be choking. Panicking, he stared up and down the corridor anew in search of someone—anyone!—that could help him, but there was no-one in sight.

   What was he supposed to do?! The thing was doubling over, clutching its tiny chest and not getting any air, and he had no idea what course of action was required to force function back into someone’s lungs. The thing had not been eating, so pounding its diaphragm would do no good. Should he thump it on the back, perchance?

   He tried that, but the only discernible result was  a repeated ‘er-er-er’ coming from the back of its throat. Frightened, he stepped back from it. Had he broken it? He did not know if children could malfunction like machines, but it did not seem altogether unlikely …

   “What’s wrong with you? What do you need?” he asked, starting to feel desperate and powerless as the thing’s plight grew worse. He would love nothing else but to pass the responsibility over to someone else, but he was the only person there.

   What if he poured water on it? Maybe that would jolt it out of its fit? On second thought, that might not be such a good idea. Comfort it? That was generally what you did when children were upset, was it not?

   Awkwardly patting the thing on its raven head, he mumbled: “It’s going to be all right.”

   Lord, he hoped to God that no-one would show up and see him in this compromising situation …

   In a giant puff of glittering, confetti-strewn, neon-shimmering smoke, Professor Snape appeared before them, arms stretched out dramatically as he launched into his usual introductory tirade. “Behold the greatest magician in all of the four British islands, the—”

   “Oh, good!” Draco interrupted, relieved to see a friendly face—as friendly faces went in Slytherin House. “Severus, help me with this thing; it just started making these strange noises and I don’t know what to—”

   His grim-countenanced magician godfather took one look at the hyperventilating mite and declared: “Snape out!” The man vanished in a thick, pinkish-purple cloud before Draco could grab hold of him.

   “Bugger!”

   Yet again alone with Harry’s sister, he stood crestfallen for a few long moments before ultimately sighing in defeat and sitting down with his back against the stone wall, urging the little wheezing thing to do the same. For a long time, he just sat there with it, dejectedly stroking its back with comforting movements until it had calmed down and seemed almost normal again.

   Eventually, it regained its senses and its ability to speak. Flushed with embarrassment, it thanked him for helping it and gave him a small hug. He sat stock-still and stiff until it let go of him and skipped off, waving its little hand in a kind goodbye. Then he leaned his head back against the cold stone in exhaustion.

   That bloody Potter was going to pay dearly for this.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Blaise realised that he needed a plan to get back in Draco’s favour. Verbal apologies seemed to do little good; he felt like a broken record, repeating his pleas over and over to deaf ears. It was humiliating, putting himself out there like that and receiving nothing but harsh words and derogatory monikers in return.

   _Twat-face. He called me twat-face._

   As soon as he saw the blonde, he automatically opened his mouth to voice yet another string of I’m-sorry-I-didn’t-mean-to-please-forgive-me when Pansy violently grabbed his arm.

   “Don’t,” she said, “you’ll only make it worse—and not only for yourself, but for me, too, ‘cos I have to bloody listen to your pathetic grovelling all the time.”

   He glared at her. “But you told me to grovel,” he protested sourly.

   She did that trademark rolling of her yellow-brown eyes that always annoyed him. “I didn’t say you should _literally_ grovel, did I? I was speaking figuratively.”

   “So what do you suggest, then, oh wise all-knowing woman?” he mocked sarcastically.

   Sticking out her chin and adopting a pleased, flattered expression, Pansy said, “You make him feel important, of course! You know how Draco loves to be the centre of everyone’s world. I bet if you show him he’s all superior and worthy of your worship he’ll melt like the Arctic icecap.”

   Blaise gave that some serious consideration. Make him feel important and worshipped, eh? He could do that, for Draco truly _was_ the centre of his world and it was probably time for Blaise to show him that, before someone else snatched up the attractive, eligible blonde. The likelihood of that happening seemed to increase for every day that passed, both because of the rabid masses pursuing him and because of Draco’s own growing need for physical pleasure.

   That hunger was something that Blaise was intimately familiar with, and he knew that it demanded to be fed regularly. He just wished that Draco would choose him as his partner again, for he _needed_ to be with Draco.

   Throughout the day, he tried to treat the blonde as a lord, as per Pansy’s instructions. Thinking that freeing his mate from his long-time eyesore would be a mercy, he stepped in to take over Pesky Potter’s serving duties. But instead of making Draco happy—not having to deal with the hated Gryffindor anymore ought to have been a good thing, ought not it?—it merely seemed to anger him further.

   So when that did not work, he went on to presenting him with gifts of all his favourite foods and sweets and even a few items that Blaise had picked up in Hogsmeade and planned to give him at a later occasion, when things had gone back to normal between them. Unfortunately, the blonde would not be bribed.

   There was one point where it seemed he might yet succeed, though; when he offered his mate the latest Gilderoy Lockhart mystery while Potter was using the potty.

   Forgetting himself, Draco eagerly and almost instinctively snatched the book out of his hands with eyes the size of saucers. “Where’d you get this?!” he demanded accusatorily.

   “I ordered it from Flourish and Blotts, got it delivered this morning,” he informed him, feeling a sliver of fluttery hope awaken within him. Maybe there was time for them yet.

   The blonde held the book in a hard two-hand grip, staring down at it with the quiet desperation of a starving man. Yet, something seemed to be holding him back, and Blaise could not put his finger on it. Finally, he firmly shook his head and pushed it back into Blaise’s arms, stubbornly turning away. “I don’t want this tripe; take it back,” he declared haughtily, and stalked off.

   Getting pissed off and more than fed up with his supposed-to-be best mate, Blaise stormed off after him, determined to make him eat his uncouth words. He chased him all the way up to the seventh floor, where they were soon going to have Arithmancy, because that was how long it took him to catch up to the blonde while running up the ever-changing staircases.

   He started to tell the superior sod off, but was rudely cut off by the abrupt appearance of Potter, who was throwing himself around the astonished blonde’s neck. “Thank you!” he was saying in affect. “Angel told me what you did, and I just—thank you!”

   Collecting himself, Draco violently pushed the Gryffindor off him, exclaiming: “What the bloody Hell do you think you’re doing?! Get away from me! Nobody’s allowed to touch me!”

   Simultaneously, the Granger girl cried out: “Harry!” Her scandalised voice perfectly mirrored what Blaise himself felt in that moment.

   At least having the decency to blush with shame, Potter averted his gaze. “Sorry, Master, I … I didn’t mean any disrespect, I just …” Looking lost and utterly pathetic, he turned to Granger instead. “Angel had a panic attack while we were in Care of Magical Creatures, and Malfoy happened to walk by and helped her through it. I guess I got a bit carried away … I mean, I hate not being there when she has one of her attacks …”

   Granger and the other people congregated at the top of the stairs seemed to relax at that, but Blaise was not fooled; he knew that there was something else going on here. He could see it in Draco’s stiff frame and anxiously flickering gaze. There was something the blonde did not wish for people to find out.

   Feeling a sting of hurt and jealousy, he therefore shouldered his way in between the blonde and his assailant, carelessly thrusting him aside. That bloody Potter was always right by Draco’s side, always forming an impenetrable wall that kept Blaise out—and he hated it. He did not take the fact that they were standing right at the edge of the stairs into account, though …

   Unintentionally, he upset Potter’s balance and before any of them could comprehend what was happening, the Gryffindor lost his footing and tumbled down the stairs. If it had not been for the severity of the situation, his baffled face would have been very comical. As it were, the terrifying ragdoll effect of his small body somersaulting down the stone steps in a cacophony of painful-sounding noises did not tickle Blaise’s laughter nerve.

   All around them, people were gasping, frozen in fright, but Draco reacted with feline swiftness. Horrified, he stretched out his arm as if to catch the Gryffindor and cried: “Harry!” With no apparent thought for his image, he rushed down the stairs to the next landing, where the raven-haired boy had come to a groaning stop.

   In doubt and disbelief, Blaise watched as the blonde knelt beside Potter and asked him: “Are you all right? Harry, are you hurt? Harry, please answer me!”

   Gingerly sitting up by supporting himself on his left arm, Potter said, “Yeah, I’m all right enough. I think my wrist broke the fall, though—literally.”

   Visibly relieved, Draco breathed out. “I’m glad to hear it. Do you think you can walk to the Hospital Wing or should I have some of your ogling friends levitate you there?”

   The Gryffindor chortled bitterly, but Blaise did not want to hear his reply. Did not want to see them like that, all matey and intimate and sharing.

   Draco Malfoy caring about Harry Potter? It was a bloody joke!

   “‘Harry,’ is it now?” he stated, his jaw stiff and his nostrils flaring. And when the blonde spun his head around to look at him, his expression said it all. “I see how this is,” he said, and turned his back on them, getting consumed from the inside out by anger, hurt, and jealousy.

   That fucking Potter was a dead man.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco could not make sense of the immense relief and other intense emotions that he experienced when it became clear that Harry had come out of his fall unscathed, save for a broken wrist and some nasty blue-black bruises. After an evening in the infirmary, he was back to normal again.

   His impulsive, instinctive behaviour and his calling the Gryffindor by his given name had resulted in a permanent change in people’s perception of them, though, and that was something he was not comfortable with. News of the incident had spread like wildfire through the school and by the end of the day, everyone knew that Malfoy and Potter had buried the hatchet and become friends.

   _Fucking lucky break that’s all they think we are_ , he thought grimly to himself. Still, he would have preferred even that much to stay hidden from the other students.

   He had told himself that he would at least be able to take his frustration out on Zabini once he returned to the dorm and was quite looking forward to reducing him to a shivering pile of pus-filled boils with a few well-whipped wand movements. Sadly, the coward had fled, leaving Draco no choice but to kill a few pillows instead.

   He spent a close-to-sleepless night tossing and turning in his luxurious four-poster, tortured by graphic fantasies about finally fucking Harry, and most of the night was spent desperately rubbing his aching erection against the soft, silky sheets. When morning came at last, he forcefully dragged the unsuspecting Gryffindor into a dark, narrow side-corridor of the Dungeons and pressed him up against the wall, lustily snogging him for breakfast.

   After that, he felt remarkably better. Readjusting his tie, he left the Dungeons with a pleased, smug grin on his face.

   Classes and other everyday activities seemed to fly by without having any particular impact on or holding any interest to him nowadays. It was simply time passing between his moments alone with Harry. And now that the bloody prat was denying him his release, those moments became more and more crucial for him to maintain his sanity.

   He hardly noticed when Professors Flitwick and Hagrid were ‘broing out’ over Flitwick’s upcoming birthday that weekend. He did not even wince when they bumped fists and Hagrid declared the other his ‘twin from another goblin,’ because Harry was looking really sexy with his brow furrowed in concentration and his jet black hair hanging into his eyes.

   Neither did he pay Professor McGonagall any mind when she sternly told them she hoped they would not cause any more trouble in her class later that morning, because Harry was deliberately passing right behind him in order to sneak a squeeze of his bum.

   It kept going like that until the last lesson of the day, which happened to be double Potions with the Gryffindors. He hardly had time to register that Slughorn was giving a lecture on the Draught of Living Death before he felt Harry’s hand stealthily slipping into his lap.

   Somehow, he managed to counter the surprised jolt his body wanted to shoot through him, otherwise he would have betrayed that something amiss was going on.

   Breath catching in his throat, he was hyper aware of Harry’s hand boldly cupping his package under the table and then, under the protective curtain of black robes, beginning to caress and sensually massage his now pulsating, happily growing member. Swallowing hard, he tried his best to keep a straight, unaffected face even though he was aching to let out his frustration by way of moaning and grinding his crotch against the other boy’s teasing fingers.

   Wormwood infusions and powdered root of asphodel made brief stops in his mind as he attempted to focus on the class. Stir twice clockwise—no, was it anti-clockwise? Three times? Mischievous fingers were silently unbuttoning his trousers, then slowly sliding inside his exposed pants and gripping his hard cock— _Oh, my God, is he actually going to jerk me off in the middle of class?!_

   Sitting stiff-backed with his quill in a death grip, Draco gasped involuntarily as Harry tentatively touched his manhood directly for the first time.

   “Yes, yes, it can be quite perturbing—this draught is not to be trifled with,” Slughorn said, nodding respectfully at Draco, apparently thinking that he had gasped in shock at something the professor had just said.

   He did not give a damn about the potion; his world had shrunk to Harry’s firm hand stroking his cock with gentle wrist movements that would not be detectable to anyone else, and to the lovely sensations they were spreading through his body. Not making a single sound or move that would expose them was nearly impossible; the raven-haired tease was making him mad with desire!

   Harry was getting bolder and more confident for every day that passed, and that was something that Draco both loved and dreaded—because just how far was he going to take this game?

   “Mr. Malfoy! You would do well to pay attention when your teachers are addressing you,” Slughorn suddenly exclaimed, jolting him back into reality.

   Looking up at the old professor, he ransacked his brain for a possible reason for this uncalled for verbal attack. Swallowing down his dangerously close-to-bursting lust, he muttered: “I beggur pardon?”

   To his utter humiliation and alarm, he noticed that his voice was husky and that his words seemed to stick together in his mouth, as if they were covered in porridge. _Fuck._

   Impatiently shifting his feet, Professor Slughorn said, “I asked you how many Sopophorous beans to use and how to prepare them.”

   Draco just blinked at the professor in incomprehension.

   Any other person might have been kind enough to let up on the sexual teasing long enough for Draco’s brain to scrunch up an answer to the question, but Harry clearly was not planning on making it easy on him. If anything, his relentless, ruthless, _pleasurable_ treatment escalated further when the spotlight was turned on his prey.

   _Fuck, fuck, fuck!_

   “I …” His voice was still sounding off, so he cleared his throat and tried anew: “I think … maybe … Sopophorous beans?”

   God, he was sounding like a bloody Cruciatus victim!

   Professor Slughorn’s eyes narrowed. “Yes, Sopophorous beans—please get on with it, Mr. Malfoy.”

   He gladly would have, just to get the old dog off his hind quarters, but right then Harry began to playfully rub his glans between his fingertips, using Draco’s own precum as lube. Unable to fully stifle the half-whine, half-moan that bubbled up from the bottomless pit of his loins, he deftly turned it into a cough.

   “I believe there should be-heee … twelve beans … and you … you … what do you do with them again?”

   He hardly even knew himself what the fuck he was babbling about. He felt as if Harry was holding him right on the edge of orgasm, allowing him neither to release the load boiling in his balls nor to step back from the brink he was so precariously being balanced on.

   Suddenly, someone poked him in the back and had him jumping high in his seat.

   “Come on, Draco, you know this,” Miles said insistently. “What’s wrong with you?”

   What was wrong with him, indeed?

   Sweating profusely and feeling everyone’s eyes on him, he cleared his throat again. “I’m sorry, professor, I’m not feeling quite … _ah_ … like myself,” he managed, cheeks burning with shame. But even though he hated being made a fool of in front of others, he could not deny the fact that he was loving the risky game they were playing—not to mention the attention his manhood was receiving. Harry was really getting good …

   Although Slughorn was visibly disappointed in his inability to answer the question, he relented when he had taken a better look at Draco’s face. “Yes, well, you do look a bit feverish, Malfoy,” he muttered, making a pained face. “Make sure to pay a visit to Poppy for some Pepperup Potion after we finish up here, boy.”

   Since no such potion was needed, Draco did not heed the old man’s advice but instead pulled Harry into an empty classroom as soon as their classmates were out of sight and virtually threw him up against a wall, holding him by the collar. “You are really playing with fire, you know that, don’t you?” he snarled before violently pressing their lips together.

   Harry was excitingly quick to comply. “It’s my new hobby,” he quipped between kisses.

   Growling deep in his throat, Draco ground his aching crotch against the other boy’s. “I need to have you, Harry, I need you so fucking much, need to feel your body tighten around my cock while I thrust deep inside you,” he murmured against the hot, smooth skin of Harry’s neck, speaking in a manner in which he had never before spoken. This boy simply brought out his naughty side like no-one else before him had managed to, and the raw attraction between them inspired his dirty mind. “I can’t fucking stand this!”

   “But you will just have to, won’t you?” Harry teased with a wicked grin, then captured Draco’s mouth with his own again.

   Biting down on the raven-haired boy’s lower lip, Draco asked: “What if I take you, right here—right now?”

   “I trust you.”

   “Maybe you shouldn’t,” he warned, only half joking. “I take what I want; I _always_ get what I want.”

   Harry laughed lewdly. “And you will—eventually,” he promised with a wink of his right eye.

   Heart skipping a beat in excitement, Draco gripped the smaller boy tighter and looked him deep in the eyes. “Are you saying you might soon be ready for me to fuck you?” he wondered, not daring to believe it until he was given conclusive proof.

   “I think I might be, yeah,” Harry whispered, and to Draco those were the sweetest words he had ever heard. And all his frustration and desperate yearning aside, he suspected it would be worth the wait.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After spending a lovely, albeit chilly evening on the meadow picking wildflowers for her room, Luna made her way back to the castle. She was not surprised when a gaggle of girls led by the Ravenclaw Latisha Randle impeded her entrance; that girl had always lamented the fact that she had not been placed in Slytherin when someone like Luna had been so readily accepted. Pettiness was not beyond her, and she seemed to find a dark satisfaction in taking out her bitterness on Luna.

   “Delightful evening, don’t you think?” she greeted the sneering group with a pleasant smile, and began to ascend the stairs towards them.

   She paid no mind to their harsh words, mocking grins, or spiteful laughter; neither did she react to them calling her ‘Loony.’ She was used to it, and there was no benefit to trying to make them stop, for they would only see that as an encouragement and further increase their bullying. Luna simply did not have time to deal with that.

   Life was too short to be mean to people.

   Genuinely wishing them a good night, she went into the castle only to find Cedric Diggory waiting for her by the entrance to the staircase that led down to the Dungeons. He looked nervous somehow, maybe even agitated, and hesitant even though he clearly needed something from her.

   “Good evening, Cedric,” she said with an easy smile, presenting him with an opening.

   Relieved, he approached her. “Hey, Luna. May I speak with you a moment?”

   Raising a wondering eyebrow, she gave him an encouraging nod. “Sure. It’s always nice to have a talk between friends at the end of the day, don’t you think?”

   Losing his thread for a second, the incredibly tall Gryffindor Chaser frowned at her. Then he momentarily looked away. “I know I’m probably breaking a very important promise to Harry right now, but I have to know; I can’t keep walking around like this, wondering what is going on.”

   “No, not knowing can be a terrible burden,” Luna agreed. “How is your head, Cedric?”

   The boy frowned at her again. Such an abundance of gloomy expressions in this one.

   “My head?” he echoed, confused. “It’s fine, I guess, maybe a slight headache …” Then he shook himself, as if he had just remembered that he had been about to ask her something. Speaking quickly, as if he was afraid she might interrupt him and shatter his fragile resolve, he launched into a practiced monologue: “That doesn’t matter. Luna, you are a good friend of Harry’s, always have been, and I understand that you would do anything to protect him—like claiming to have been dating him and that you dumped him on the day he broke down a couple of weeks ago.

   “But what I didn’t understand was _why_ you did that, because Harry wasn’t the target of any nasty rumours back then; he was the victim and everyone was sympathising with him. It didn’t add up—until I remembered that Malfoy was the one being targeted by the gossips. You are also a good friend of Malfoy’s, so I’m thinking the person you were actually protecting by stepping in was him. But why would you do that? Why would you have to say that you had broken up with Harry?

   “And why would you stop Hermione from investigating Harry’s activities? Unless it’s not only Harry’s activities but also _Malfoy’s_ you’re trying to protect. It’s not just Harry going off on his own, is it? It’s Harry and Malfoy going off together, isn’t it?”

   Once he had finally reached the actual question that was burning a hole in his mind, Cedric came to a breathless stop, his grey eyes boring into her with a mixture of ‘I’m-expecting-the-worst’ and ‘please-tell-me-I’m-wrong.’

   Tilting her head slightly to the right and giving him a calming, pensive smile, she said, “Hermione is such a nice and intelligent person, don’t you think? I rather like talking to her. She gives me valuable insights, even though her views can sometimes be a bit rigid. Did she want me to stop bothering her?”

   While Cedric was trying to follow her sudden change of conversational direction, she dug her Spectrespecs out of her messenger bag and put them on.

   “What? No, I’m sure you’re not bothering her, but Luna—”

   “Your ears are brimming over with Wrackspurts,” she interrupted him, scrutinising him through the swirly lenses with a grave expression. “No wonder your head is full of worries and dark, paranoid thoughts! Here, take my hat; you need it more than I do.”

   Bewildered and flustered, Cedric was still too much of a gentleman to push Luna away. Instead, he let her place the woven straw hat on his head. “No, that is not what I’m here about. I need to know—”

   “Don’t worry; I have a spare in my room,” she assured him, brushing a few errant, dry grass stalks off his neat maroon robes. “You’ll feel better soon. Just remember to think positive thoughts; they don’t like that. I’m sorry I hurt Harry, and I understand that you’re worried about him. I’m sure you can help him come back to himself, though.”

   With those words, she left him to his ponderings. He was bound to find out the truth soon, but it would not be from her.

   Back in the Slytherin common room, she found that Draco, Harry, and Miles had all fallen asleep on a three-seat couch, apparently exhausted after a long study session. Harry was in the middle, with his head resting against Draco’s shoulder, while Miles had tipped over and was half-lying over Harry’s right side.

   She smiled down at them fondly. Gently, careful not to disturb them, she lay down across their legs with her head in Draco’s lap and her feet dangling in the air off Miles’s right knee.

   Draco, who was a light sleeper, woke with a start and blinked down at her with drowsy eyes. “Luna?” he croaked in surprise.

   “Shhh,” she admonished him, and closed her eyes, somewhat changing her position to make herself more comfortable. A warm, happy sense of belonging filled her when she felt his hand on the top of her head. “I love you, Draco,” she said sincerely. “You’re a good friend.”

   He did not reply, but she could still hear his reciprocation loud and clear as he affectionately stroked her head and ran his fingers through her long hair as she fell asleep.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _I’m smitten I’m bitten I’m hooked I’m cooked_  
>  I’m stuck like glue  
> You make me  
> Make me hungry for you 
> 
> — The Cure, _Why Can’t I Be You?_
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who use the metric system:
> 
> 6’2” = 188 cm.


	13. I Cannot Fool My Heart

 

His conversation with Remus and Sirius needed some time to truly sink in, but Harry was vaguely aware of it being mulled over in the back of his mind as the week passed. By Friday evening, it was at the forefront of his mind and Remus’s words were echoing inside his otherwise seemingly empty head. He just wished he could reach some sort of conclusion.

   Wandering the school aimlessly—restlessly—to put some distance between himself and the increasingly more irresistible blonde, Harry happened to end up in the arrival’s area when Viktor turned up to visit his fiancée and toddler son for a few days.

   He watched as the big, burly Bulgarian lifted his tiny son high into the air to the boy’s great delight. Harry could not help but smile at the scene, especially when Oliver’s trilling laughter rang out in the Arrival Hall.

   It was always so strange to see the usually proud, stern-faced Quidditch star Viktor Krum light up at the sight of his family, grinning like a child on Christmas. But he guessed having people you loved more than life itself—and who loved _you_ more than life itself—did that to a man.

   A sting of envy punctured him as Viktor opened his huge arms to include Hermione, embracing her lovingly with their son in between them. Her face was shining with pure, unadulterated joy, and she looked at home in his arms—completely at peace.

   Harry was indescribably happy for his best friend because he loved seeing her like that, but at the same time he wished to have what she had. That special someone that was meant for you only; someone to share everything with, to spend the rest of your life with.

   It might be odd for him to yearn for such a deep and pivotal connection at his rather tender age, but watching Hermione with Viktor he recognised how hollow his own existence was in comparison. He had always thought that he was the lone wolf type, had always been content with being unattached, but lately he had come to understand that that simply was not him. He was meant to share that kind of bond with someone, too.

   Due to his constant contemplation of Remus’s words, Harry inevitably thought about Draco. The blonde was becoming more and more important to him, claiming all his time and attention, and with the way Harry was drawn to him he could not help but wonder … Could Draco be his Krum?

   _No, that’s absurd_ , he thought, stubbornly shaking himself. What Draco and he had was nothing like Hermione’s relationship with Viktor. How could it be? The Slytherin was loathsome, arrogant, selfish, mean—the list could go on—so how could Harry in any way fancy him?

   He could not possibly want that git to be his Krum.

   And, besides, the notion of someone ‘being his Krum’ was ridiculous in itself.

   As the weekend progressed, though, that thought seemed to pop up with increasing frequency until he sort of got used to the idea. It especially made itself known when he was with Draco in the Slytherin Dungeon, hanging out with him, Miles, Crabbe, Luna, and Goyle. He eventually lost count of all the times the blonde caught him staring wonderingly at him, irritably asking: “What? If I have something on my face then just say so instead of staring at me like some mindless Inferi!”

   _Oh, I’d love to cover your face in something, alright,_ he found himself thinking, almost immediately starting at his own dirty mind. He had never pictured something like that before, and it rather shocked him—but at the same time, his heart and cock began to pound in synchronicity as the image asserted itself in his mind.

   On Sunday evening, he was sitting in the common room, curled up in a cosy old armchair with his legs folded under him, listening to a conversation between Hermione, Cedric, Dean, Neville, Ginny, and Ron with half an ear. They seemed to be talking about the upcoming half-term break, which was only five days away now, imagining everything they were going to do during the week they would be free from school, free from duties.

   _That’s right; the break is almost here. Wonder what I should do?_

   “Dean and I are going to visit his grandmother in Cornwall,” he vaguely registered Ginny saying enthusiastically. “She has this big old house right by the ocean, and there’s a beach literally 200 feet from the house! It’s gonna be so exciting, swimming and sunbathing and watching the sun set over the water …”

   “Just don’t tell Dad or he’ll insist on going with you,” Ron warned with a flicker of mischief in his blue eyes. Turning to Harry, his tone became conspiratorial as he continued: “You’ve probably seen how he gets when Muggles are involved.”

   Harry dutifully laughed. “Yeah, Dad has to keep him on a very tight leash whenever he’s visiting in order to keep him from invading our poor, unsuspecting neighbours,” he agreed.

   “Are you sure James doesn’t just set him loose on them for the pure Hell of it? He always comes back home with a few ‘souvenirs’ after he’s been round your house.”

   Ah, yes. Arthur Weasley and his Muggle artefacts …

   Viktor, who had up until then been sitting quietly next to Hermione with Oliver happily bouncing on his lap, suddenly pulled his fiancée into an intimate embrace, eliciting a surprised giggle from her that caught everyone’s attention. After kissing her entire face, he rumbled: “Isn’t it time ve give him a little sister, _Mili Moy_?”

   The bold question had the innocent Neville choking on his own intake of breath, and Hermione blushed a deeper crimson than the Gryffindor scarf that was hanging over the back of the couch next to her. Harry felt as embarrassed for her as she looked; he would not have wanted his partner to say something like that in front of their friends, either. It was bad enough to hear it as a third party, for this was something so private it was uncomfortable to be made privy to.

   Someone who did not pick up on the personal aspect of the subject, however, was Ginny. Turning a black-eyed, angry face on Dean, she demanded: “How come you never say anything like that to me, Dean? Why are you so insensitive?”

   Bristling, her boyfriend instantly rose to the challenge. “‘Insensitive?!’” he echoed in affront. “Since when is it _insensitive_ not to ask to impregnate your girlfriend?”

   “Since last year when I told you I want a baby!”

   “But I _don’t_! Or have you forgotten that there are actually two parties in a decision like that?”

   Completely ignoring the rowing couple out of habit, Hermione gave Viktor an endearingly shy look as she said, “And if it turns out to be a little brother …?”

   Grinning mischievously, Viktor tenderly caressed her cheek, brushing stray strands of bushy, brown hair behind her ear. “Then ve vill just have to try again,” he declared, kissing her so deeply Harry felt like a pervert for being a witness to it.

   “But it isn’t fair!” Ginny went on, oblivious of the sweet—but racy—scene currently playing out in their midst. “Hermione’s getting _two_ children before I’m even getting my first!”

   “You are only _sixteen_!” Dean practically bellowed, beside himself with indignation. “What’s the bloody hurry?! I don’t wanna be a dad while I’m still in school!”

   Letting out a frustrated, spoiled groan, Ginny whined: “You’re heartless!”

   Still paying no mind to the heated row going on between the two lovers, Viktor turned towards them and lifted Oliver off his lap, gently placing him in Ginny’s instead. “You babysit, yes?” he prompted, making it sound more like a demand than a request.

   “No!” Dean snapped.

   “Of course, we’d love to,” Ginny said at the same time, using quite a different, kinder tone with Viktor and giving him a lovely smile. Then she effortlessly went straight back to berating her boyfriend for being so ‘cold and uncaring’ …

   Having had quite enough for one evening, Harry quietly slipped away to the blissful tranquillity of the already winter-cold stone corridors of the castle. It was only the eighteenth of October; seemed like it was going to be a severe winter.

   Once again alone with his thoughts, he could hear Remus’s words repeating themselves as clearly as if the older man had just spoken them: _I knew that I wanted Sirius, but his behaviour and airs made me question his intentions and held me back from fully allowing myself to fall for him. Not until he proved to me that he truly meant what he said about me being the one._

   He wanted Draco more than he could remember wanting anything in his life, wanted nothing more than to reside in his arms, feeling his warm touch and inhaling his intoxicating scent. But like the Sirius of the past, Draco was putting on airs and not really behaving in a way that one would desire in a potential partner. Sure, he was all for snogging and engaging in other physically pleasing activities, but he was not showing much in the way of tenderness, care, affection. He was arguably more lenient on Harry these days, but other than that he was pretty much treating him the same way he always had.

   Harry was ‘the Gryffindor,’ ‘the half-blood,’ ‘the prat.’ But maybe he should not worry so much about that? When it came right down to it, Harry still often thought of Draco as ‘the git’ or ‘the Slytherin,’ even though the old line between Slytherins and Gryffindors was becoming more and more blurred out for every day that he spent in their company.

   To his mind, the Slytherins were just like his own housemates; they were simply more focused on their goals and more determined to achieve them, not letting anything stand in their way. In Harry’s opinion, that was not a bad thing; he rather wished he could be more like them in that regard instead of giving up when he got too frustrated with something.

   So, maybe Draco’s considering him ‘the Gryffindor’ did not necessarily mean that Harry had not risen in his regard of late? And he did mostly refer to him as monikers like that in front of others … Could not really expect him to go all ‘mate’ and ‘love’ in the company of his friends, could he? Much less in the vicinity of other people …

   Still, what were they to each other? Could one really say that they were in a relationship—of any sort? And did he actually _want_ to be in a relationship with Draco?

   Almost immediately, Harry found the obvious answer that had been buried somewhere deep in his aching chest: yes. Yes, he did. He did not want to be a mere fling or would-be fuck buddy; he wanted to be with Draco, _belong_ to Draco.

   And he wanted Draco to want _him_ , too; wanted Draco to want to be his with all his heart.

   That revelation gave birth to a whole new array of worries; that the blonde would have no real interest in him as a person and therefore no inclination to get involved in anything deeper than a temporary sexual connection. That bringing the subject out into the open would result in him finding out that there was no ‘relationship’ to speak of.

   It also gave birth to the question, was he falling in love with Draco?

   How could he even know for sure either way? He had never been in love with anyone before. And the whole thing with him dating Cedric was further complicating matters, confusing him. If only there was some way to test his feelings and figure out what he truly wanted …

   “Hey, Harry, out for a stroll?” a familiar voice suddenly asked and made him stumble to a stop in fright.

   Miles was coming up the corridor, headed in the opposite direction, and his intelligent, perceptive blue-green eyes fell on him with such a directness that Harry cringed inwardly. It was as if the mate could see right through him—as if he could discern every secret hidden away in his heart by simply looking at him.

   “Oh, hi, Miles,” Harry responded, trying not to betray his nervousness. “Yeah, Dean and Ginny are rowing again so I thought better of hanging round the common room right now.”

   “Ah, yes, I’ve been unfortunate enough to be within a hundred yard radius of them during one of their ‘baby discussions’ on several occasions, so I feel you, mate,” Miles said, giving him a supportive pat on the shoulder.

   With so many tall people moving in his circles, it felt somewhat strange to be comforted by a bloke only an inch taller than himself. The only people around his own height who used to do that were Hermione, Noelle, and Luna. But he liked Miles, he really did; he was a good bloke, and very sensible.

   “Where’s Draco?” the dark-blond Slytherin naturally asked, gazing around them as if Harry’s reluctantly steadfast companion might appear out of thin air at any moment. “It’s rather unusual to see one of you without the other these days.”

   An apt observation, indeed.

   Harry was mortified at his own traitor body when his cheeks began to burn in embarrassment and forbidden longing at the mention of Draco. “He said he needed to lie down a bit,” he nonetheless replied in an unaffected tone. “Said that new Chaser had given him a headache during practice this afternoon.”

   “Yes, literally,” Miles nodded. “Say what you will about the bloke, but managing to throw the Quaffle into the path of a Bludger and causing it to bounce straight into the head of a passing Seeker is quite an accomplishment.”

   “I guess, when you look at it like—”

   Harry’s sentence died out half-finished when he spotted Cedric rounding a corner some thirty yards from them. Out of habit, he waved at the ridiculously tall brunette, who immediately steered his steps over to them.

   “Hi, Harry,” he said with a guarded smile, probably not wanting to show too much affection in the company of someone else—and a Slytherin, to top it off.

   “Hey,” Harry therefore greeted in the same fashion. Then he looked between his partner and his new mate. “I don’t know if you two have ever been formally introduced, but anyway, this is one of my best mates, Cedric Diggory—” He made a lazy hand gesture at his roommate, then proceeded to do the same at Miles. “—and this is one of my friends in Slytherin, Miles Bletchley. But you of course know about each other through Quidditch.”

   “Yes, of course, you are quite the Keeper,” Cedric said somewhat nervously to Miles, then scrunched up his face as it dawned on him what that actually sounded like.

   Miles simply took the tall Chaser’s right hand in his and gave it a firm shake. “I absolutely am,” he confirmed with undisguised pride. “But you make my job challenging. I’m looking forward to meeting you on the pitch again in November.”

   The natural, pink flush on Cedric’s cheeks deepened at the unexpected praise. “Er, thanks—and you, too,” he mumbled.

   Harry could not help but grin wryly at the scene; Cedric looked so cute when he was flustered that he just wanted to hug him.

   And then an idea struck him like a bolt from the blue. He was stuck between two very different boys that evoked very different feelings in him—at an emotional impasse—in dire need of testing himself to figure out which one he belonged with. So why not make a real-life comparison?

   “Cedric,” he said before he could change his mind or flake, “speaking of Quidditch; I have a few ideas on a new game plan that I would like to discuss with you. You know, as Captain to Deputy Captain …”

   Somehow catching his drift, the other boy instantly consented to going back to the dormitory with him, boldly taking his hand as soon as they had gone out of sight and giving it a loving caress before reluctantly letting go.

 

 

* * *

 

 

It was not entirely true that he needed to lie down—although he _did_ have a pounding headache after taking that Bludger to the side of his head—he just needed to be away from Harry for a while. It was his only way of maintaining a semblance of calm and control.

   He had never gone this long without wanking, and with the constant teasing it was simply getting to be too much for him. His entire crotch was burning with a constant, desperate need and his bollocks felt big as tennis balls, filled to the brim with boiling, bubbling cum that had to be pumped out …

   Taking to pacing the common room again in an attempt to get rid of some of his nervous, frustrated energy, Draco vainly tried to force his mind onto a different path. One that would not make his already attention seeking cock any more persistent.

   Coming to a sudden stop, a thought hit him with the force of a sledgehammer. _Hang on just one minute … Why am I letting Harry decide if I can masturbate or not? I’m a Malfoy, for crying out loud! Malfoys don’t let others dictate what they may or may not do!_

   Laughing out loud to himself, he set off towards his room with the intention of spending a steamy hour or two behind his bed curtains and a Silencing Spell. Unfortunately, someone else had a different idea of how the evening should play out and cut him off before he could lock himself in the dorm.

   Opening his mouth in preparation to tell Zabini to go fuck himself, Draco was taken completely aback when the dark-skinned boy said, “Hi, I’m Blaise Zabini, it’s nice to meet you,” proffering his hand for the blonde to shake.

   Confused and somewhat wary, Draco demanded: “What are you doing?”

   Giving him a smart smile, Zabini said, “What does it look like? I’m introducing myself. This is where you tell me your name.”

   “But I already know who you are,” Draco objected, frowning in incomprehension.

   Shifting his weight, the boy who used to be his best mate made an effort to exhibit greater patience than he had ever managed before. “I was thinking, if you’re not willing to continue as before, then maybe we can start over. You know, clean slate and all that bullshit. ‘Cos … I miss you, Drake. I just want us to be all right again.”

   Whatever he had expected to hear coming out of Zabini’s mouth, this had not been it. And regardless of how much he hated to admit it, it did make him ponder the suggestion.

   After a long pause, he finally sighed. “I’ll think about it,” he muttered, having a feeling that he would soon live to regret it. When the other boy lit up and let out a victory whoop, however, he quickly warned: “Don’t get your hopes up, Zabini.”

   Grinning wryly, his former mate simply stated: “Well, at least you didn’t call me ‘twat-face.’”

   “Don’t tempt me,” Draco hissed between gritted teeth before he turned on his heel and stalked off towards the exit to the Dungeons.

   The mood had effectively been killed, and if he was going to get through the night now he was going to need some Harry time.

 

 

* * *

 

 

In order to finally get to the bottom of his feelings, Harry told the rest of their roommates that they were going to use their room for a Quidditch meeting and were not to be disturbed, then asked Cedric to lie down with him on his bed. The other boy seemed baffled by that but was quick to comply.

   Although he was both nervous and scared, Harry initiated a snogging session of a kind that he had never shared with anyone but Draco. He kissed Cedric just as deeply as he would the blonde; touched him the exact same way that he would touch Draco, albeit tentatively and somewhat reluctantly. He needed to know how it would make him feel.

   _Any moment now_ , he found himself thinking while letting his hands roam over the hot skin of Cedric’s muscular back and chest, _any moment now, I’ll feel aroused. Any moment …_

   But the heated, tingling, electrified sensation of being in the thrall of lust did not make itself known, not even when Cedric placed passionate kisses on his neck and collarbone, even though he knew that he loved being kissed like that. When it was Draco doing the kissing …

   Not a single moan formed in his throat, even though dozens of them should have been fighting to escape him with such strong, masculine hands exploring his body, caressing his cheek, and running through his tousled hair. Cedric, on the other hand, let out a moan or sharp intake of breath now and then, especially when Harry experimentally grabbed onto his buttock and squeezed like he always used to do when he was snogging Draco.

   But no, not even that managed to awaken the slightest flame in Harry. Cedric’s moans did not at all affect him the way Draco’s every sound affected him. _Fuck._

   What was even worse was that he was starting to feel guilty about being with him. Feeling guilty and bad was nothing new in itself since Cedric was supposed to be his boyfriend and he was secretly seeing Draco, as well, but it soon became apparent that the focus of it had shifted. For every kiss, for every touch of Cedric’s hands on his body, it felt more and more wrong.

   He was not supposed to be here, was not supposed to be snogging this boy, and he sure as Hell was not supposed to be touched by anyone but—

   _Draco._ The name buzzed through him like an electric current through a copper wire. He was supposed to be with _Draco_ — _wanted_ to be with Draco—and lying in the arms of Cedric made him feel as if he was betraying the blonde.

   As if he was cheating on him.

   _Bugger …_

   Withdrawing from Cedric a bit too quickly, he sat up, cheeks burning with the shame he felt over going behind Draco’s back and over using this amazing, caring person lying in front of him. But he simply could not go on; it was not right.

   “I’m sorry,” he mumbled almost incoherently, “I guess I wasn’t ready for this yet, anyway.”

   Berating himself for resorting to that excuse again, he nevertheless scrambled off the bed in a tangle of clumsy, half-asleep limbs and hurried for the door. He felt as though he could not get any air into his lungs and needed to get out of there as fast as possible.

   He needed to talk to Hermione, needed his best friend to tell him what was up and down so he could find his footing again. If anyone could help him sort out his feelings, it was her.

   Luckily, it seemed like she had escaped Viktor’s passion for the time being, because she was sitting alone in a corner of the common room, working on her knitting.

   “Hermione!” he called out to her as soon as he spotted her, making her twitch and look up at him with a wondering frown. “I need to talk to you; d’you have a minute?”

   Putting her knitting down onto a side table, she rose from her seat and began to direct him towards a more private room. “Of course,” she said, expertly sealing the room behind them. “What’s the matter? You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” She caught herself and blinked a few times. “Although that saying may not be as emphatic in magical circles.”

   Waving her thoughts on Muggle idioms aside, Harry made her sit with him and blurted out the question he desperately needed answered before he lost his courage. “Hermione, how do you know if you’re in love with someone?”

   Jerking as if she had just been slapped in the face, Hermione stared at him with wide, astonished eyes. It took her several excruciatingly long moments to collect herself enough to speak, making Harry jittery with impatience. “I … Harry, are you …? Oh, my God, Harry! You’ve _fallen in love_ with someone?!” she finally exclaimed, excitedly clapping her hands together.

   Starting to question his judgement in coming to her, Harry muttered, “Well, that is what I’m trying to figure out, now isn’t it?”

   Shaking herself, she said, “I’m sorry, you just took me aback is all. I mean, you’ve never shown any true interest in anyone before, so I wasn’t expecting … Who is it?” That question seemed to be so pertinent that she immediately answered it herself. “Oh, wait, it’s Noelle, isn’t it? Julie told me you’d gone on a date with her in Hogsmeade, but I didn’t belie—”

   “Who it is isn’t important—” So not true, but still applicable for argument’s sake. “—I just need you to help me figure out whether I _am_ in love with hi—her or not. I’m going crazy, Hermione; I don’t know what to do or what to think anymore.”

   Forcing herself to calm down for the sake of her best friend, Hermione soberly launched into a long explanation of what it typically felt like to fall in love with someone, practically providing him with a checklist of ‘symptoms.’ And as cliché as most of the points sounded, Harry had to admit that there was a frighteningly high degree of accuracy to them.

   There was the instance of thinking of that person first thing upon waking up and last thing before falling asleep at night, something that Harry conceded to having done for some time now. In fact, the blonde always seemed to be on his mind, regardless of the time of day—as if he was obsessed with him. Apparently, it was also common to dream about that special someone.

   Then there was the case of wanting to spend all your time with that person and feeling only ‘half yourself’ whenever you were apart, as if he or she was your other half or held half of what you were in their arms, keeping it with them so that you would only ever feel whole again when you were together.

   With a sinking feeling, Harry started to realise just how deeply his feelings for Draco ran. There was not a moment in the day that he did not want to spend with the blonde, and he often forgot all about his friends and even his own sister because of it. Whenever he was apart from Draco, he longed to be with him, feeling as though there was something missing when he was not around.

   And what really got him was Hermione’s description of what it felt like, physically, to be close to the person you were in love with. How that person would affect your entire body by simply being present; heart beating faster, butterflies fluttering around inside your stomach, breath catching, cheeks burning, light-headedness … That all-encompassing warmth settling over you and that giddy, silly happiness that filled you even as you felt awkward around them; maybe even shy or embarrassed.

   “Fuck,” Harry said, his voice hardly more than a whisper. He was getting dizzy, nauseous.

   Giving him a sympathetic and reassuring smile, Hermione put a hand on his knee and gave it a squeeze. “It’ll be all right, Harry,” she told him with confidence. “I’m sure she feels the same way about you.”

   Yes, if only ‘she’ did …

   Looking to distract himself from the new rainbow of dread and anxiety that enveloped him like a full-body noose, but also out of genuine curiosity, he asked her: “How did you know? That you wanted to be with Viktor, I mean. That you … love him.”

   Getting that faraway, happily smiling expression that always accompanied the subject of Viktor, Hermione let out an almost nervous laugh. “It was when I realised that I wanted to build a family with him,” she confessed, meeting his gaze with an open directness in her dark brown eyes. “The circumstances were a bit different in my case, remember; I was pregnant.”

   Right. Hermione had found out that she was expecting Viktor’s child the day after the Yule Ball, a mere month after they started dating. As Hermione had told it, Viktor had had his eye on her ever since the Durmstrang students arrived on October 30, adamantly courting her with his strong, silent air until she finally agreed to go on a date with him. That first date had happened on Saturday, November 16 in 2013, eight days before the First Task was to take place.

   After seeing Viktor perform and exhibit great deals of bravery, cleverness, and adaptability, Hermione had experienced such a rush of adrenaline, excitement, and admiration that she had gone to bed with him, despite them only having dated for a week. Blushing, she had admitted to having succumbed to Viktor’s stoic charm on several occasions following that first night, but that had been the only time they had been careless and neglected to use protection.

   Still oblivious of the little miracle they had created together, Viktor had escorted Hermione to the Yule Ball, which traditionally was held on the Saturday that preceded the Christmas Holiday. Hermione had been forced to leave the dance early, though, due to feeling under the weather. When her condition had not improved by the following afternoon, she had gone to the infirmary, believing that she had come down with something—only to discover that she was pregnant.

   “Not really what you’re expecting to be told when you’re in your fifth year of magical school,” Hermione now quipped with a note of irony in her voice. “At first, I was really scared, and not just of being a mum at 16. I was scared of telling Viktor, too, because I was convinced that he would hate me. That was as far from the truth as things could get, though …”

   She laughed and shook her head at the memory, continuing: “You know, there was never a moment of doubt for him. He was only 18 at the time, on the cusp of being signed on with the Bulgarian national team fulltime … but when I finally had the courage to tell him, he just took my hands in his and told me that he wanted both me and the baby, forever. He went down on his knee and asked me to marry him, because he had loved me from the moment he first saw me.”

   Moved by her story, Harry spontaneously grasped her hands and held them in his as he intently listened to the rest. His own eyes felt warm and unusually wet when she teared up with emotion.

   “I wasn’t as strong and sure as he was; I spent the Christmas Holidays thinking through my options—weighing them against one another, you know. But for every day that passed, it became more and more real to me: I had a _baby_ growing inside me, a baby that was half me and half Viktor. When I realised that, I could picture us together sometime in the future, with this little boy or girl running around our legs, laughing happily … and I knew that I wanted that. Viktor, the baby—the whole package. And I have never regretted that decision.”

   Her words made a powerful impact on Harry, and while he did feel enlightened as far as his feelings were concerned, he still was not sure what he ought to do. He could not stop himself from falling in love with Draco, but he could refrain from telling the blonde unless there was some sort of hint to him feeling the same way about Harry.

   The prudent thing would probably be to stay away from the Slytherin until he had made up his mind.

   Exiting the magically sealed side room, that unfortunately proved impossible, for the blonde was currently standing in the middle of the common room, having some sort of showdown with Cedric.

   It was Harry’s number one nightmare scenario come to life.

   “I do not care if you have read ‘Protecting Your Mates for Dummies’ ten times over; I am not buying it, and you had better bring me Potter before I set your precious hair on fire,” the blonde was demanding, waving his wand threateningly in Cedric’s face. His back being to the door they had just emerged through, he did not see that the person he was asking for had already joined them.

   Apparently angry, Cedric was about to go for his own wand before he noticed the new arrivals. “Harry,” he said, looking surprised to see him. Then his eyes fell on Hermione and one of his eyebrows rose in an unspoken question.

   Lowering his wand, Draco turned around and looked like he was exhaling a sigh of relief. “Ah, Harry,” he said, forgetting to use his last name, and swiftly walked over to him. “I’ve been looking all over for you, and this dimwit claimed not to know of your whereabouts. But all that aside, I am going mental and really need you to toss—”

   Shutting his mouth quicker than quick as he remembered that they were still in the presence of others, the blonde blanched when he realised what he had been about to spout.

   Of course knowing exactly what Draco wanted him to do, Harry felt both heart and loins warming to the idea. Nevertheless, he feigned confusion and asked: “Toss out those old books you’ve been complaining about taking up space?”

   Collecting himself, the Slytherin gave him a short nod. “Yes, that is correct. Disorganisation grates on me and I am currently not allowed to do manual labour.”

   The almost non-existent knowing undertone perfectly conveyed the double entendre of ‘manual labour,’ and Harry was at once eager to get out of there so he could have Draco to himself. To Hell with protecting his heart.

   Smiling apologetically to his friends, he therefore said, “Seems like Draco has need of me. I’ll catch you later, yeah?”

   When they were alone, Harry gave the blonde a knowing, mischievous grin. “So, you want me to toss you off, eh?” he stated self-righteously.

   He quite enjoyed the way Draco started and then stiffened defensively. “Well, I do have needs, you know, and you are sort of preventing me from satisfying them,” he grumbled indignantly. “Hence, I figured you might as well satisfy them for me.”

   That made Harry laugh in spite. “A Malfoy can always dream …”

   Narrowing his eyes in suspicion, Draco snapped: “What?”

   “Never mind,” he chuckled as they walked into the blonde’s empty dorm room and locked the door, something that seemed to be becoming a habit for them. In accordance with another habit, Harry automatically transferred the Slytherin’s books and other school material from his satchel to the trunk by the foot of his bed before doing anything else.

   As he was finishing up, he got hit by a sudden sneeze attack and dropped the bag, making its remaining contents spill out onto the stone floor with a loud clatter.

   “Hey, be careful with my belongings!” the blonde reproached.

   “S’rry,” Harry mumbled, rubbing at his itching nose.

   He stooped down to tidy after himself. A fancy-looking, burgundy leather bound notebook caught his attention, and he curiously picked it up. There was no script on its cover, but when he opened it and quickly flicked through the pages, it became apparent that it was filled with poems that had all been written in Draco’s neat, elegant hand.

   Nonplussed, he looked up at the Slytherin. “You write poetry?” he asked, impressed.

   Sweeping over to him in one swift, fluid movement, Draco snatched the notebook out of his hands and spirited it away with a dexterity and a magical flair that would make Professor Snape green with envy. “You have no right snooping through my things!” he hissed accusatorily.

   Flushing crimson in shame, Harry babbled: “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to snoop or anything, it just fell out of the bag and I … I got curious, ‘cos, you know, I want to know more about you. There’s _so much_ I don’t know about you, and I want to know everything.”

   The blonde blinked down at him in incredulity, not seeming to understand his sentiment at all. “Why would you want to know everything about me?” he asked, sounding almost offended. “Or about anyone, for that matter? What’s the use? People are despicable—flawed. Better not dig too deep or you’ll end up finding something you can’t reconcile.”

   That was a rather dark viewpoint, in Harry’s opinion, and it did not exactly put the blonde in a good light. But when he reached in under the bed for a quill that had rolled in there, he noticed that Angel’s drawing of their picnic together was hanging on the wall below the headboard.

   Draco had actually attached it to his wall, despite his assertion that he did not want it. So, really, how bad of a person could he be?

   Smiling to himself, Harry straightened up and went over to Draco, pulling him into a passionate embrace and placing an equally passionate kiss on his soft lips.

   Despite his earlier playful threat, though, Harry was in a kind, accommodating mood, so he refrained from teasing the blonde and settled for snuggling with him that evening. Eventually, cuddling turned into snogging, which in turn evolved into touching. After his long conversation with Hermione, Harry could not help but analyse everything he felt, successively checking off points on the symbolic list she had provided him with.

   As opposed to his awkward snogging with Cedric, the blonde’s hands left hot, tingling skin in their wake and his eager mouth awakened an insatiable hunger in Harry. Lying in Draco’s arms like that, his entire body was buzzing with life; burning with desire.

   He was _home_.

   As their heartbeats and heavy breaths synchronised and their bodies connected like pieces of a jigsaw puzzle, Harry finally found the answer he had been looking for. _Yes_ , he thought to himself. Yes, this was where he wanted to be; this was who he wanted to be _with_. And by Merlin, he hoped that the blonde’s seemingly infinite lust for his body and the surreal intimacy they shared meant that he felt the same way, for Harry knew that he could do nothing but go all in.

   Because he was in love with Draco.

 

 

* * *

 

 

There seemed to be some tension between Harry and Draco as Monday rolled around, and Luna was unsuccessful in getting a straight answer from either of them about it. Thanks to avid and caring observation, she could conclude that Harry was doing his best to avoid Draco while the blonde was trying to keep him around, frustrated and indignant.

   She wondered what that was all about, and since no-one would tell her she would simply have to do some recon.

   When classes ended at four-thirty, she heard Harry making a poor excuse of needing to fetch something from his dorm before Art started, so she smoothly and soundlessly slipped out of the Divination classroom hot on his tail. It was always exciting to follow people around to see where they were going when they thought no-one was looking, and Harry made things so much more interesting when he went in the complete opposite direction of Gryffindor Tower.

   When he entered the winding stairwell to the Dungeons, Luna was bouncing with excitement on the inside, because she thought he was headed to see Draco. Therefore, she was somewhat surprised when he turned a different corner and they eventually wound up at the Potions Club.

   Curious, she snuck inside without drawing any attention to herself and sat down at the table behind the one Harry chose, burying her face in her Magical Mixology book.

   A mere two minutes after they arrived, the head of the club came over to Harry’s table. Sitting down across from him, she shot him a mischievous grin. “So, what is this I’m hearing about you and me being a couple?” she wondered with a knowing tone that spoke of deep friendship and familiarity.

   Since Harry had his back to her, Luna could not see him blushing, but she could hear it in his voice, alright. “Right, I was going to talk to you about that …”

   Luna listened in amused interest as Harry told Noelle Longbottom that he had pulled a stunt in order to get Luna back into his life and furthermore asked the Ravenclaw if she knew about the supposed breakup between the two of them. “I have no idea why she did that, but I wanted to mend it,” he finished, slightly out of breath.

   “Oh, I think you know perfectly well why she did it,” Noelle objected with a wink. “There is someone in your life, isn’t there? You look different—happier. I’m glad.”

   For a few seconds, Harry tried to nervously deny her apt assumption, stumbling over his own words in his panic. Then he seemed to realise that there was no use pretending with this girl and let out a heavy sigh. “Yeah, there is,” he confessed, “but it’s complicated and … uncertain.”

   Putting a reassuring hand over his on the table, Noelle looked him deep in the eyes and said, “Love usually is in the beginning. These things have a tendency to sort themselves out eventually, one way or another.”

   Another sigh escaped Harry. “I sure hope so …”

   Behind him, Luna had to restrain herself from flying over to him and pulling him into a big hug; hearing him admit that ‘there was someone in his life’ made her so exhilarated she hardly knew what to do with herself. It was heart-warming to learn that he had finally come to terms with his feelings.

   “It’s all right to let people think I’m your girlfriend,” Noelle told Harry. “I understand the need to protect the person you love. Plus, keeps all those annoying boys off my back.”

   “Really?” Harry wondered, happily surprised. “Thanks, Noelle, you truly are a lifesaver sometimes. It’s not easy when the person you fancy is … unpleasant.”

   ‘Unpleasant,’ eh? There was so much left for Harry to learn about Draco …

   Noelle gasped in feigned horror. “Nooo, it’s not Flint, is it?!” she stage whispered.

   “Wha—no! How could you even think that— Hang on, why did you assume it’s a bloke? I mean, I haven’t said anything about … preferences, or … How’d you—?”

   Laughing, the Potions wiz shook her head at him. “Let’s just say I’m good at sensing these things,” she said cryptically, and gave him another one of those knowing winks.

   Confident that she was leaving her pseudo-brother in good hands, Luna quietly stole back out of the Potions Club and hurried off towards the common room to knead Draco’s malleability on the subject.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Cedric was well aware that things were not the way he wanted them to be, nor were they the way he would have figured them to be like at this point. Considering their bond and their close relationship—the effortlessness between them and their sharing a bed—he would have thought that things would be escalating rather than petering out.

   Sure, Harry had begun to take certain initiatives that went beyond a quick kiss and he had even asked Cedric to lie down with him. Harry actually being the one to encourage snogging had made Cedric happy beyond belief to begin with—not to mention the fact that he had been touching him in such a sensual manner.

   It had been a dream come true, feeling Harry’s warm, strong hands exploring his chest and back beneath his jumper, and it had swiftly lit a fire within him, making his heart speed up and his manhood rise to attention in giddy expectation.

   But it had not felt right somehow. Despite them being so intimate, Cedric could not fail to notice that Harry was not getting aroused. And once he had become aware of that, he had started to sense a sort of desperation from his boyfriend’s side, as if he was trying to prove something to himself. There had not been any true passion behind his actions—if indeed there had been any passion to draw from at all.

   That had effectively killed Cedric’s boner, and it had actually been a relief when Harry pulled away and left.

   Having been in a relationship before, he knew that this was not what it was supposed to be like, and not only because Harry did not seem to be in it. There was also a certain reluctance brewing under the surface of his own emotions. He loved Harry, he truly did, but somehow that did not seem to be enough. A relationship was so much more than just loving each other, and perhaps they were missing certain other pieces that were essential to completing the puzzle.

   It became ever clearer that something was wrong when Harry did not come home that night. There was of course always a possibility that he needed some distance after their awkward parting, but Cedric had a feeling that there was a completely different reason behind it.

   A reason that began with ‘Draco’ and ended with ‘Malfoy?’

   Sitting down with Neville, Hermione, Dean, and Ron after school on Monday, his heart was heavy with the conviction that they would not last much longer now. It had been hanging in the air between them every time they had found themselves in the same place, and the truth had been plain to read in those beautiful emerald pools every time their eyes had met across a room.

   That did not make it any easier, though. Regardless how wrong it may feel to continue together under present circumstances, it still hurt, because he had wanted things to work between them so bloody much.

   Listening with only half an ear as the others chatted, he smiled and nodded now and then to make it seem like he was engaging in the conversation. Laughed when someone appeared to be making a joke. In reality, the only thing on his mind was the belief that Harry would seek him out after having finished assisting Malfoy in Arts class to put an end to their short but sweet romance.

   _Merlin, I wish we could’ve had whatever it is that they apparently have together …_

   “On the other hand, it seems like Harry has finally found someone he fancies,” Hermione was saying, practically giving them all a knowing wink.

   Cedric’s stomach turned. How could she be so excited and _happy_ about Harry getting involved with that git?!

   “So it seems, doesn’t it?” he sighed before he could stop himself. Neither could he stop the horrifying images of Harry snogging Malfoy that unbidden invaded his mind. Wincing in disgust, he shook his head at the vile, ludicrous idea.

   “Do tell, do tell!” Ron urged, eagerly leaning forward in his armchair, his blue eyes sparkling with interest and his face cracked open in a wide grin.

   _Here it comes_ , Cedric thought, steeling himself.

   “Yesterday, Harry came to me asking how you know that you’ve fallen in love with someone,” Hermione told them conspiratorially. “He wouldn’t say who it was for the longest time, but eventually I managed to pull it out of him. You’ve probably already guessed it, though, considering what happened in Hogsmeade—”

   Cedric started. Wait a minute … in Hogsmeade? But then—

   “—and he’s dating _Noelle_!” Hermione finished, excitedly clapping her hands together with a loud _slap!_ “You can’t even _begin_ to understand how relieved I am! I mean, here I’ve been walking around worrying that he’s got himself into the habit of smoking gillyweed or drinking spiked Pepperup Potions, and he’s just been nursing a new relationship!”

   Her trilling laughter sounded hollow in Cedric’s ears and would not quite penetrate his now confused mind.

   Noelle?

   But … Harry was gay. Was not he?

   Surely this must be another ruse to hide his true partner!

   Later, though, when everyone but Neville had left the common room, the gangly, awkward boy put an alarmingly consoling hand on his shoulder. “I’ve spoken to her and she confirmed it herself,” he said in a low voice, and the concern in his green-grey eyes was like a knife cutting through the flesh to Cedric’s heart. “I’m really sorry, mate. I was rooting for you guys, I really was.”

   One clap on the shoulder and an uncomfortable smile and he was gone, too.

   Left standing in silence and befuddlement was Cedric. Could it really be that Harry had fallen for Neville’s sister? She was a feisty, headstrong, and rather tomboyish girl, and if he was bi …

   In the midst of all the pain and hurt, he found a glimmer of relief that he desperately clung to. It was not Malfoy. Thank Merlin! Anyone would have been better than the school Princess, and Noelle was a more than sensible choice as far as partners went.

   Smiling ironically to himself, he conceded that something good would be coming out of their breakup, at least, and he felt secure in the knowledge that Harry would be happy. It was, after all, the thing that mattered most to him.

 

 

* * *

 

 

After having spent a sleepless night agitatedly wandering the cold corridors of the castle—and longing for morning to come so he could see Draco again—Harry had made his decision: he had to break up with Cedric. But even though his mind was set, his courage kept failing him every time he met Cedric’s gaze. His grey eyes seemed to hold every expectation that Harry would never be able to live up to, and he hated having to put out the fire that was burning in them.

   But they were not the _right_ grey eyes.

   With the pressure of doing the right thing for both his long-time close friend and his hopefully-soon-to-be boyfriend, Harry found that being too close to Draco made the guilt in his heart spike to new heights. Therefore, he tried his best to stay at a decent distance from the blonde until he could resolve everything.

   He wanted to be free the next time he kissed Draco, however crass that may sound.

   After classes ended, he genuinely intended to go straight to Cedric, but almost immediately after exiting the Divination classroom he lost his nerve again. Feeling insecure and scared of the consequences of ending it with the brunette, he found himself taking refuge in the Potions Club room. As always, Noelle managed to calm him and put some perspective on things.

   _I will go talk to him after Art_ , he promised while steeling himself against the onslaught of crude obscenities that Draco was subjecting him to at the moment.

   Fortunately, the blonde cooled off a bit once he got lost in his current art piece, so Harry could exhale. He did not take it too well when Harry told him he had something he had to do after the lesson was over, though, but luckily Hermione chose that moment to approach him.

   “Harry, are you gonna see Noelle tonight?” she asked, catching him off guard.

   He did not care for the knowing, almost evocative glint in her deep-brown eyes.

   “Er, I actually saw her before Art, but if there’s something you need me to forward to her I’ll be happy to do that next time I … see her,” he therefore said uncomfortably, hyper aware of the blonde crowding him from behind.

   Giving a start of comprehension, Hermione chirruped: “Oh! All right. Never mind, then, I’ll just ask her myself if I see her. And, by the way, you seem to have got some paint on your robes.”

   Looking down at himself, he soon found a two-inch diameter stain of green on the crimson lapel of his black robes. “Huh. Must’ve been careless when I squeezed the paint out of the tube or something,” he mumbled, scratching at the stain without yielding any result. It almost felt as if it was part of the fabric. “Can oil paint get soaked into clothing within a span of forty-five minutes?” he wondered out loud.

   Failing to see the source of his concern, Hermione dismissively waved her hand in the air. “I’m sure it’ll come out. Anyway, I have to run; got to see Viktor before he leaves for Bulgaria again. Have a good night!” she piped, swiftly turning on her heel and practically skipping off with Oliver’s pushchair bouncing in front of her.

   Harry opened his mouth to object to her leaving, but Draco grabbed his arm a tad harder than necessary and forced him to meet his gaze. “What is all this about you ‘seeing’ the Longbottom harlot?” he demanded, his silver eyes turned to unbending iron.

   With everything else he was facing this particular evening, Harry opted out of admonishing the Slytherin for his disrespectful word choice; he did not have the energy to argue with him. Instead, he sighed and said, “We’ve been over this already. I’ve made it so that people think I’m dating Noelle in order to keep their attention off us. You must’ve realised that my friends would catch on and start asking questions; you’re clever like that.”

   Sucking up the compliment like a sponge absorbed water, Draco adopted a haughty mien. “I was expecting as much, yes, but that doesn’t explain why you were actually spending time with her when you could have been with me.”

   They were speaking in low, almost whispered voices, but Harry still looked around them nervously to make sure that no-one had heard that last exchange. Then he hissed: “Well, the lie is sort of made more believable if I’m actually _seen_ with her now and then, don’t you think?”

   Draco looked away with a face that showed a reluctant, grumbling admission. Pointedly crossing his arms and sticking out his chin, the blonde finally said: “I guess I should give you leave to … associate with your whor—horrible little ‘friend.’ On occasion.”

   Brightening up, Harry gave him a perky slap on the shoulder. “Good. Great. I’m off, then—see you later!” he blathered, and hurried off before Draco had time to pull out his wand and make him stop.

   When he stepped through the portrait hole, he found that Cedric was sitting in an armchair facing the entrance and immediately shot up to his feet when he saw him, as if he had been waiting for him. Considering how things had gone the previous evening, that may very well be the case … He was not dumb; he would have figured out something was wrong by now.

   “Hey,” he said as Harry joined him, nervously meeting his gaze for about three seconds before looking off to the left. “Maybe … maybe we should go somewhere more private …?”

   Nodding, Harry let him lead him to one of the study rooms and awkwardly stood just inside the door, agitatedly running his hand through his messy hair.

   It would have been so much easier if the other boy would get the conversation started, but he merely leaned against a desk and waited for Harry to open.

   Taking a deep breath for courage, he closed his eyes and focused on what was right; what had to be done. “Cedric, I …” His voice sounded thick and incomprehensible, so he cleared his throat loudly. Then he forced himself to open his eyes again and look at him, for that was the least he could do. “I don’t know how to say this without being a total arsehole, but I can’t do this to you anymore—it’s not right. You are an amazing person, one of the best I’ve ever met and I’m so lucky to have got to know you, and you deserve so much better than I can …”

   He had to stop, because a well of emotions was opening up inside his chest, threatening to spew its contents out of his throat and spitefully making his eyes blur with sudden tears.

   Merlin, this was the hardest thing he had ever had to do in his life …

   Collecting himself, he continued despite the fact that his voice cracked more than once. “I can’t be with you, Cedric. I’m really sorry, but I can’t. I wanted … I wish that I could love you the same way you obviously love me—and I wanted to, believe me, I _really_ wanted to—but there’s someone else I just can’t stay away from, and I …” Another deep breath. “I do love you, Cedric, but as a very close and important friend. I realise that now. No matter how much you mean to me and how much I care about you, though, I can’t be with you when I’m falling in love with someone else.”

   Finally having put it all out there, Harry felt something lift off his chest and leave him completely exhausted—but relieved. He was hurting one of the most important people in his life at this very moment—hurting him immensely—and that made _him_ hurt in ways he would not have thought possible, but at least now they would be able to start mending the relationship that they were supposed to have. Their friendship.

   After having been silent for a while, Cedric met his gaze with a sad, resigned smile. “It’s all right, Harry; I understand,” he whispered. “It’s hard to ignore those feelings once they’ve got a hold on you, isn’t it? It has a tendency to just … happen to you. I … I actually heard about it earlier today, so I was kinda expecting this …”

   An icy, nauseating dread settled over Harry, and he felt as if he might faint at any moment. Cedric had heard about him and Draco?! From whom? _How?_ They had been so discrete, always careful to stay under the Invisibility Cloak and make use of Muffling or Silencing Spells …

   Panicking, he took a step closer to Cedric. “I’m so sorry, I never meant for it to be this way—it just happened—and I kept fighting it for obvious reasons, ‘cause who in their right mind would want to be with someone who’s—”

   “Harry, you don’t need to explain,” Cedric cut in, blushing crimson in discomfiture, “it’s perfectly all right to be bisexual; you don’t have to be ashamed of it or anything.”

   Completely losing his thread, Harry merely stared at him for a moment or two before finding his voice again. “I’m sorry, _what_?”

   Cedric cleared his throat nervously. “Yeah, you know, even if you’ve always thought you were gay it’s not wrong or shameful or anything to fall in love with someone of the opposite sex—I mean, it happens, right? And I’m happy for you that you and Noelle have found each other; she’s a good person. Very … capable.”

   Harry blinked at him in utter astonishment. Then the words sank in and he understood how it must be: Cedric had heard the rumour and believed it to be true.

   Feeling even worse seeing this boy—his first boyfriend—deceived yet again than he had done when he thought the truth about him and Draco had finally surfaced, Harry had to look away from him. He did not deserve to meet those honest, trusting grey eyes. Yet, he could not find it in himself to come clean, either.

   “I’m really sorry, Cedric, I should have told you sooner. You just mean so much to me and I didn’t want to hurt you. I _never_ wanted to hurt you, I hope you know that,” he said with genuine sincerity. Tears fell down his cheeks and he had to bite his trembling lip in order to keep the sobs away.

   That became an impossible task when Cedric embraced him reassuringly and, despite everything Harry had done to him, tenderly kissed the top of his head. “It’s okay, Harry; I know. I only want you to be happy, and if your happiness lies with someone else, then that is who you should be with. I’ll be fine, all right?”

   Fighting back the urge to cry uncontrollably, Harry whispered: “We’ll still be friends, right?”

   “Yes, of course. Always.”

   He was so affected by their parting that he stayed in the small study room long after Cedric left, unable to go out and face the world. He simply could not deal with anything else now; he was spent, both emotionally and mentally. His insides felt torn asunder by the pain over what he had just done. Over hurting Cedric.

   Dazedly pulling out his phone, he typed out a message to Luna.

 

_Could you tell Draco I’m too tired to study tonight?_

_I’ve done something awful and really can’t deal with_

_anything more now. Tell him I’m sorry._

_Consider it done._

_Here if you need me. <3_

_Thanks, Luna. Lurve you._

_Me lurves you, too!_

He was so bloody lucky to have her.

 

 

* * *

 

 

Ever since re-introducing himself to Draco, it seemed like the blonde might slowly be getting used to the idea of them interacting with each other again. Thus far, he had mainly called Blaise names and made a laughing stock of him, but hey—that still counted as social interaction, right?

   This Wednesday afternoon, however, he came across Draco while he was pacing an otherwise empty common room, looking ready to climb the walls or pulling his precious hair out.

   “You look pent up, mate,” he commented, stopping to watch him with his hands casually stuck in his pockets.

   Draco was apparently so annoyed and agitated that he spat all over the place when he exclaimed: “Of course I’m pent up, he’s not—”

   Stopping himself, seemingly before he could incriminate himself, Draco came to a sudden standstill, frowning. It was plain to read on his face that he was uncomfortable, fidgety, maybe even angry with himself for almost having slipped something he wished to keep secret.

   “Why am I telling _you_ this?” he wondered. “You should learn to mind your own business.”

   “It used to be my business, Drake. Old habits die hard.”

   Rounding on him, the blonde hissed: “I have a Fiendfyre with your name on it—perhaps _that_ will help motivate you to kill it?”

   Emboldened by the fact that Draco was actually talking to him in a somewhat normal manner, Blaise kept pushing. “You know, it can be again. My business, I mean.”

   “Oh, bugger off, Zabini!” the blonde expelled, and promptly stormed off.

   The exchange had not exactly been satisfactory, but Blaise was still grinning to himself as he watched the disappearing back of his former partner. He was feeling slightly more optimistic about the future now. It was just a question of time before Draco came begging for him to reinstate their old arrangement.

   The half-term break could not have come at a better time. Draco being all alone at the Manor for a whole week with no-one in sight to please him was sure to work out in Blaise’s favour. Not to mention the fact that there would be no Potter around to manipulate him …

   Oh, he could not _wait_ until they came back from the break!

 

 

* * *

 

 

Since Thursday evening would be the last before they all went home for the half-term break, Harry wanted to make it a special one. Having recovered enough to once more be able to enjoy himself with Draco, he wanted to ensure that they both got enough of each other before they had to part. There had been no talk about meeting up during the break, so Harry did not know if he would get to see him at all until they were back at school again.

   All the other Slytherins were having a half-gathering, half-party that evening to celebrate getting a whole week off school, so they took advantage of that and stole off to Draco’s room. Locking the door behind them, they went straight to the bed, snogging and desperately running their hands over each other’s bodies before even reaching it.

   They had not been truly intimate with each other all week, and Draco’s intentions were crystal clear in the way he immediately pushed Harry down onto the firm mattress and straddled him, his fingers already fumbling with the buttons in Harry’s plaid shirt. Not allowing their lips to part for a single second, he still somehow managed to strip both their torsos. When he went for Harry’s trousers, however, he was stopped.

   Chuckling mischievously, Harry forcefully spun them around until he wound up on top. “Not so fast,” he admonished, bending down over him.

   Teasingly and excruciatingly slowly, he licked the milky, smooth skin of Draco’s neck to the wonderful background music of his approving moans. At the same time, he used one hand to play with the blonde’s stiff nipple and the other to rub at his jerkily growing and hardening erection.

   After a sharp intake of breath, Draco gasped: “Harry …”

   Letting his tongue slide upwards until he reached his partner’s sensitive earlobe, Harry mumbled: “Yes?”

   “I need you.”

   “I know you do,” he assured the trembling blonde, and bit down on his earlobe.

   Crying out in an arousing mixture of pleasure and desperation, Draco moved his hips to the rhythm of the strokes, and Harry felt a rush of power at the heavy breaths and frustrated groans that he expelled. Impatient to hear more, he let go of the blonde’s earlobe and whispered seductively straight into his ear: “You may wank now.”

   He could feel the shiver that ran through Draco’s body when he said that; it vibrated through his own chest.

   “You’re not taking the Mickey now, are you?” he demanded. “You’re really letting me wank?”

   Grinning self-satisfactorily, Harry said, “Yes—as long as you let me watch.”

   The blonde swiftly spun his face around to look at him. There was a small, incredulous wrinkle between his brows, a glint of disbelief in his silver eyes. “ _Watch?_ ” he echoed. “You want to … _why?_ ”

   Harry laughed at his confounded expression. Then he tenderly kissed him. “Because I get off on your pleasure—” He forced open Draco’s mouth with his tongue in order to kiss him more deeply. “—because I love every sexy sound you make and can’t even imagine how intense it would be to also see the expressions that go with them—” He caught Draco’s full, sensuously curved lower lip between his teeth and elicited a delicious cry from him. “—and because it will be bloody hot,” he finished, pinning that intensely burning silver gaze with his own.

   The blonde swallowed hard. “Okay, you’ve convinced me,” he said huskily.

   With his grin widening happily, Harry gave Draco one last kiss on his mouth before moving downwards, generously giving attention to every inch of his neck, chest, and abdomen. Upon reaching the waistline of his trousers, he worked the buttons deliberately slowly in order to get one last teasing sequence in before the blonde would finally be granted release.

   “Oh, fuck yes!” Draco exclaimed when Harry began to pull off the trousers.

   Feeling mischievous, Harry bent down and traced the quivering, rock-hard dick through the pants fabric with his tongue, eliciting a surprised outcry from the blonde. Encouraged by the immediate, exciting response, Harry proceeded to gingerly grab the elastic of the pants between his teeth and slowly, _slowly_ pulled them off of Draco’s eager erection.

   “Oh, my God, _Harry_!”

   Seeing Draco’s cock for the first time—lying hard and stiff against his lower abdomen with precum oozing out of the glans—Harry found himself transfixed. The whole thing felt surreal; being there with such a gorgeous and sexy bloke who was this horny and ready to explode _because of him_. It was immensely invigorating while simultaneously wondrous.

   From his perspective, it looked _huge_. He sucked at making approximate measurements with his eyes and had no idea what the average might be, but he was pretty sure that the blonde measured above average. It must at least be seven inches …

   Still in a half-daze, he stretched out his hand and tentatively touched it, letting his fingertips slide along the veined shaft, down to the uneven, creased surface of the scrotum, lost in fascination. Everything was so neat and trimmed …

   Letting out something close to a snarl of frustration, Draco suddenly shot up into a sitting position. “Enough already!” he breathed, and grabbed Harry by the neck, forcefully pulling him in for a hard, passionate kiss. Then he practically threw Harry down onto the mattress and straddled him so they were crotch to crotch. “You want to watch?” he demanded with something wild in his silvery eyes. “Then watch!”

   Without waiting for permission or any other form of admission, he gripped his cock firmly and began to stroke it swiftly and violently, pointing it straight at Harry while giving him a challenging look.

   Harry watched in fascination as Draco pumped his erect manhood in front of him, alternately staring at the private show he was being given and the blonde’s lovely, intense, passionate face. He took it all in, soaking it up like a sponge; the big, pulsating cock with its oddly delicious-looking pink, glistening tip; the almost desperate movements of Draco’s hand; the balls that initially bounced freely and hypnotisingly in rhythm with the strokes but later contracted as the blonde moved closer to ejaculation; the film of sweat that covered the pale, but flushed face; the half-open mouth that could not possibly keep quiet; the burning _need_ in Draco’s eyes …

   “Fuck, this feels good …,” the blonde mumbled, succumbing to a powerful wave of pleasure that Harry could feel vibrating through them both, closing his eyes and throwing his head back.

   “No—look at me,” Harry ordered.

   Instantly obeying, Draco fixed his gaze on Harry’s, and their held eye contact intensified the experience. Even though Draco was the only one being pleasured at the moment, they were both breathing heavily, both grinding against each other as if they were in fact joined. It was indescribably hot.

   Harry loved every second of it, and judging by Draco’s reactions, so did he. He could not seem to get enough, and when he detected a subtle change in the blonde’s expression and a stiffening in his body, he spontaneously reached up his hands and grabbed his exposed arse cheeks, squeezing them in a moment of passion.

   That seemed to finish Draco, for he made a semi-hissing, semi-whining sound and began to tremble. In the next second, his entire body jerked violently and the first jet of hot cum shot out of his cock to land on Harry’s face. He gave a start purely out of not having been prepared for it, having time to think, _Hope he doesn’t think I’m disgusted by it._

   But then Draco cried out his name in ecstasy, over and over as he fired the rest of his load straight into Harry’s face. Harry loved the exciting sounds that came out of his mouth—every single moan and cry—loved his pleasure-shivering body, loved the ecstatic, euphoric, relieved expression on his pale, but blushing face. The experience was so powerful that Harry once more came in his pants, expelling a few spontaneous moans of his own.

   It was the strongest, most intense orgasm he had thus experienced, and it gave him a profound sense of satisfaction. His heart was overflowing with happiness and what he figured must be love; there was no other name for what he felt at that moment.

   Still looking into Draco’s beautiful grey eyes, he marvelled at how much he had loved the sensation of him cuming in his face—and how much he loved the feel of hot, sticky semen on his face now. Without even reflecting on what he was doing, he licked off the strains that had landed on and directly around his mouth, quite liking the salty and somewhat bitter tang to it.

   Seeing that, and no doubt feeling the aftermath of the intense experience they had just shared, Draco impulsively bent down and kissed him fiercely. “That was fucking amazing,” he said emphatically.

   Feeling almost out of breath, Harry replied: “Tell me about it.”

   They snogged deeply for a long time after, embracing each other possessively and looking to prolong that extraordinary closeness for as long as possible. Eventually, Draco broke free of Harry’s lips and instead traced his jawline with hot, sensuous kisses, continuing down onto his neck. Suddenly, he sucked onto the skin to the left of his Adam’s apple, playfully biting him at the same time.

   Harry cried out in surprise, both over the unexpected love bite and over the fact that he enjoyed it so much. Even though it almost hurt and the pressurised sensation of his skin being sucked into Draco’s mouth was kind of uncomfortable, it had him trembling in sudden arousal.

   “Won’t that leave a mark?” he wondered as the blonde pulled himself up again.

   “That is the point,” he told him, lying down next to him and making himself comfortable on the fluffy pillow. “While I want you like this, you are mine, for as long as I want you, and everyone should know that you are spoken for. They won’t know _who_ has claimed you, of course, but at least they might know to back off from other people’s property.”

   Draco’s words were like tiny knives that consecutively stabbed his heart and forced a terrible cold upon him. It sounded like he was talking about a possession—a _thing_ , a _toy_ —rather than a person he might see himself with. As if Harry was nothing more to him than a means to an end—a way for him to achieve physical satisfaction.

   _Property._

   The horrible truth managed to make its way past the glow of their ‘special’ night together.

   Draco did not feel the same way about him. He was just using him.

   Realising how incredibly stupid he had been to delude himself into believing they could ever be a couple, Harry felt as though he was about to be sick. Making some excuse or another, he quickly cleaned up, dressed, and left the Slytherin Dungeon, doing his best not to break apart.

   Yes, he had been stupid, but he would not be anymore. He understood that the blonde would not want to continue seeing him like this, not when he had finally got his release. Sure, he may still wish to bed Harry, to fuck him in order to fulfil his fantasy and add another virgin conquest to his sexual resume, but Harry was convinced that he would lose interest in him sooner rather than later.

   In fact, it was highly likely that it would happen during the break. With them being apart for over a week, Draco would probably find someone else to entertain himself with. Merlin knew who he might meet over at the Manor, what with all the social gatherings they must be engaging in on a regular basis …

   Therefore, Harry resolved to harden his heart over the break so _he_ would not end up breaking apart when the blonde dumped him. He needed to prepare himself, both mentally and emotionally. Not wanting the mark anymore due to what it represented, he wore his scarf all day, claiming to feel a cold coming on. At least he felt some degree of satisfaction in the irritation that the Slytherin exhibited because of it.

   Knowing full well that he would not be able to control himself if he got too close to Draco, he would not allow for them to be alone during the last day of school. And when it was time for them to travel to their respective homes, they had a lukewarm goodbye that felt more like a farewell to Harry. He could see that the blonde was confused and possibly wondering what was going on, but he could not allow himself to give in to the need to embrace him, to kiss him.

   It was better this way.

   It would be over soon, anyway.

 

 

* * *

 

 

During the monthly Potter family dinner, which was held on Sunday the 25th of October, Luna could immediately tell that Harry was distressed. There was a certain glum aura about him, and he was mostly too distracted by his own brooding to react or respond to what the others said to him. It was clear that it was not just her imagination, because even Dudley was picking up on it.

   When she finally managed to get him alone—in the pantry, of all places—she asked him if there was something wrong between him and Draco.

   Harry initially tried to wave it off as nothing, but she would not have that. After a five-minute staring contest, he finally admitted to being hurt. Apparently, he had come to the conclusion that Draco was not reciprocating his feelings. He would not give any details about how he had figured that out, but she assumed it had not been during afternoon tea.

   “He’s just been playing with me,” he stated, meeting her gaze with sorrowful, pained emerald eyes. His pain cut right through her, and she spontaneously threw her arms around him in a comforting hug. “I was blinded by my own feelings, projecting them onto him, but the truth is it’s only physical to him. But I’ve really fallen for him, Luna. I’m scared he’s gonna break my heart and make me lose my sanity altogether, but at the same time I can’t forget about him.”

   Hugging him even closer to her, she cooed: “Oh, Harry, I’m sure things will work out between you. I’ve known Draco on a deeper level than anyone else has for years, and I can assure you that he has never opened up like this before—to _anyone_. He wouldn’t do that if you weren’t special to him.”

   An eternity seemed to pass before Harry finally spoke again.

   “I’m not so sure about that anymore.”

 

 

* * *

 

 

Draco did not understand why Harry was suddenly being so cold and indifferent to him—so utterly dismissive—during the last day of school before they left for the half-term break. And that stiff, formal goodbye he had given him? What the bloody Hell had been up with _that_? Did not he understand that Draco wanted him to sweep him off into the shadows somewhere and snog him under the Cloak when it might be the last they saw of each other for a week?

   It had almost seemed as if he wanted nothing more to do with Draco.

   How could he just change his mind overnight like that?! Everything had been perfect the night before and Harry sure had seemed to enjoy it just as much as he had. So why was he shying away from Draco’s touch all of a sudden? Why was he deliberately avoiding situations in which they might find themselves kissing?

   And why the bloody Hell was he covering up Draco’s mark with that hideous Gryffindor scarf?!

   Did he not understand what an immense privilege it was to belong to a Malfoy?!

   Indignant and offended, he spent most of his weekend trying to ignore his hurt feelings and the gloomy thoughts that kept pressing for his attention. As long as his parents were around, it was an easy enough task since he always had their rows and inhuman demands to distract himself with. Come Sunday afternoon, though, they left him alone at the immense Manor to visit some old friends of theirs.

   It was nothing new, though; they often left him all alone, never caring to bring him along on their journeys. Not that he would go with them, but anyway … They could at least show some interest now and then, like normal parents.

   He really tried to ignore the fact that he was feeling lonely, but the huge manor house tauntingly gaping its empty rooms at him as he passed through the hallways made that a daunting task, to say the least. If only there had been someone to talk to, someone to pass the time with; someone who could hold him in their strong arms and nibble on his earlobe just the way he liked it as their black, messy hair tickled his cheek …

   Shaking himself, he forcefully thought, _No!_ He was _not_ going to think about that fucking prat Potter! Not after the way he treated him Friday.

   But no matter how hard he tried, he could not seem to keep Harry out of his mind, and soon the raven-haired boy was all he could think about. The way they had parted was grating on him, making his sanity fray at the edges; he just could not understand what had gone wrong.

   He could not sleep at night, could not eat, could not concentrate on anything that required even a handful of brain cells to work. His chest was aching and he felt oddly empty, as if something vital was missing, and the discomfort only grew for each day that passed.

   _Emerald green eyes that glittered mischievously at him beneath a fringe of unruly, black hair … gentle fingertips that stroked his cheek, sending pleasant shivers through his awakening body …_

   Oh, how he longed to feel that touch again … But he just could not admit to himself that he missed Harry, even though his heart seemed to have trouble pumping the blood through his veins and his lungs seemed to have forgotten how to draw breath properly. Missing someone was equal to submission, and Draco did not want to be a weak person. Malfoys were _not_ weak and dependent on others!

   He did not miss him.

   But why was not he writing? One would think that Harry would have at least dispatched _one_ owl by now—but no; not a single word to spare for Draco, apparently. If he had only received a letter from the Gryffindor he could have soothed his aggravating yearning without having to show any vulnerability, himself.

   Why did not he want to talk to him? Desperately thinking back to their last time together before leaving Hogwarts, Draco tried to find the reason for Harry’s sudden coldness by isolating the moment in which it had started. Everything had been fine—no, _excellent_ —up until he left his mark on Harry. Could he have found that too territorial of him?

   No, he had obviously loved it from the way he cried out and the way his manhood instantly started to grow again, so it must be something else that—

   Oh, fuck. He had let his mouth run again, had not he?

   Realising that made him ache even worse, desperately wanting to have Harry by his side once more, and he fought it out of sheer force of habit. But if it would mean losing Harry …

   “To Hell with this buggery!” he exclaimed to himself with conviction. He would not let his parents’ unrealistic expectations for him hold him back from what he wanted anymore—they did not give a bloody damn about him, anyway. “He’s mine,” he declared, and it felt good to say it out loud.

   _He’s mine._

 

 

* * *

 

 

Harry spent most of his time with Angel and their mum, trying his best to enjoy the break from everyday school life and the fact that he was with his family. But regardless how hard he endeavoured to be happy and carefree, his treacherous mind kept steering back onto the Malfoy path and his traitor heart kept beating a desperate _Draco, Draco, Draco_.

   A couple evenings they had their traditional game nights with Aunt Petunia and Dudley, as well, something that Harry used to love. But now he could neither concentrate nor enjoy himself. He felt completely dejected, numb. Angel was clearly worried about him, but he could not find it in himself to reassure her, either.

   On Tuesday, he received a severe- and angry-looking horned owl that he recognised all too well and was so scared of what its message might hold that he remained standing stock-still until it began to nip at his bare arm. Cursing at the pain, he finally snatched up the letter it was dangling in front of him by its right leg, and just as he had feared it was sealed with the Malfoy crest.

   He stared at it, ice-cold inside. This was it, was not it? The end. The blonde was not even man enough to wait until he could break it off with him in person but was opting for doing it like this, via letter. Although, he guessed he should not be surprised that Draco Malfoy was taking the coward’s way out.

   Slowly, he opened the letter, dreading what he might find inside.

 

_Come to the Manor. I have included the details as to how you will reach  
_ _my fireplace through the Floo network._

Harry glared at the message. That was it?! ‘Come to the Manor?’ The git was just expecting him to up and leave his family simply because he told him to? Oh, no! He was _not_ going to be a bloody servant during a holiday, for crying out loud!

   He scribbled down an angry _No_ below the blonde’s message, rolled up the parchment, and tied a piece of yellow string he found in a kitchen drawer around its middle. Then he tied it to Valentis’s leg and sent him off without so much as a scrap of owl treat. Would serve that arsehole right when his owl returned in a berserker mood over not having been fed.

   Gloomy and irritated, he retreated to his room and soon wound up listening to Depeche Mode’s _It Doesn’t Matter_ on repeat. Merlin, he wished he could say that it did not matter that what they had was not love and be content with what little he could get from the blonde …

   A knock on the door made him jump. “Come—” He embarrassedly cleared his cracking voice. “Come in!”

   His mother opened the door and stuck her head in through the 45-degree crack. “Hi, love,” she said with her pleasant, grounded voice, “I just wanted to see how you’re doing.”

   “I’m fine,” he blurted out too quickly, too sulkily.

   Giving him an understanding and comfortingly loving smile, she came to sit beside him on the bed. For a while, she just sat there with him in companionable silence, but then she said, “You know, your father and I went through a rough patch many years ago, before you and your sister were born. For quite some time it wasn’t clear whether we would continue together or not, and it was the hardest and most aggrieving period of my life.”

   Not sure what to say to that, Harry stayed silent and waited for her to continue.

   “We had found that there were certain things we didn’t agree on and had two choices—to work out a way to deal with them and work on our relationship or to go our separate ways. I was so scared that James would want to break up with me, because I knew even then that I simply cannot live without him.”

   When she grew silent this time, there was a finality to her words that communicated that it was his turn to speak, so he frowned and went for the only thing that came to mind. “Why are you telling me this?”

   Since she did not want to divulge exactly _what_ they had disagreed on, this was obviously something very private, and he felt like he should not even hear this much about it. It was not his place.

   Turning to look at him, his mother smiled fondly at him and put a reassuring hand on his knee. “I know you, Harry; we are very much alike, you and me. I can see myself in you, and I can guess what you are going through right now, even without knowing any details. Besides, I was sitting alone listening to _It Doesn’t Matter_ when I was uncertain of my future with James, too.”

   She gave him a wink that made him blush all the way up to his ears. It was extremely uncomfortable knowing that your mother could see through you so well, but it was a profound relief at the same time. Especially since he now knew that she could relate.

   “I was dating someone,” he finally confessed, and lightening his heart actually felt liberating, “someone really good and loving and caring who only deserves the best in life, but then I fell in love with someone else and had to break up with … this person. I broke another person’s heart, Mum, and now I’m afraid I’ve made a mistake because this other person that I really want to be with doesn’t seem to feel the same way about me. It seems like this person I really like is only looking for something casual, and what I want is anything but casual.”

   Voicing his wishes like that made them feel so much more real to him, and he immediately recognised the truth in what he was saying. It was as if the fire in his chest had been burning low for a while, flickering on the verge of extinction, and acknowledging his emotions had just stoked it to full life again.

   “You obviously like this girl very much,” his mother said with great affection. Smiling at him proudly and happily, she put her hands on his cheeks and lovingly caressed his face with her thumbs. “Whatever you do, Harry, make sure to follow your heart. You will only come to regret it later if you don’t.”

   With those words, she rose from the bed and left him to his own thoughts.

   Follow his heart, eh? If only it would see reason and give him a course of action that would not put him in the path of emotional devastation …

   He wound up brooding in his room until well into the evening, not bothering to turn on any lights or emerge for supper. Eventually, he must have dozed off, because an insistent pecking on his window woke him with a start. Rubbing at his sleep-heavy eyes, he forced himself out of bed and over to the window.

   It was Valentis again.

   Stunned and somewhat bewildered, he took the note that the owl was carrying and hurriedly opened it. What could possibly possess the blonde to write him again after Harry’s forthright dismissal? It was not like him to push when someone shoved him …

 

_ Please. _

 

Harry stared at the single word. Could not believe what he was actually seeing. For Draco to actually say ‘please’ to someone—in _any_ situation—he must really be sincere; he would never put himself out there for anything less than dire need. So for him to say ‘please’ to Harry, he must truly want him at the Manor with him, and not just for cleaning up after him and serving him tea.

   Maybe Harry meant more to him than he had thought during these past few days. Maybe he …

   Everything suddenly seemed as clear as day: he had to go to him. Regardless of the insanity of and the risk in it, he had to go to him.

   He took the stairs three at a time on his way down to the ground floor and practically flew into the parlour, where the fireplace was located. His parents, apparently playing cards, looked up at him in surprise when he almost crashed into the fireplace, and he thought he heard his father ask him where he was going, but he ignored him. Could not waste a single second on answering him. Besides, he could not exactly say ‘to Malfoy Manor,’ either.

   Luckily, the descriptions Draco had left him did not have the name ‘Malfoy’ in them, so he could safely throw down the Floo powder and be off without worrying about his father throwing a fit.

   When mere seconds later he arrived at the Manor and got his bearings on the vast, luxurious chambers before him, Draco shot up from the edge of an enormous four-poster that was the clear centrepiece of the room, apparently having waited for him. He hurried over to him and threw his arms around him, violently pressing his lips to Harry’s and pulling him into a tight embrace.

   “I missed you!” he breathed affectedly after coming up for air. Then he gave a start, as if he was coming to himself. Blushing, he took a step back from Harry. “I mean, I appreciate that you came so quickly after my last missive reached you.”

   At first, Harry was so shocked by this impulsive, unexpected display of affection, but once it had all sunk in, his face cracked open in a happy grin. Touched, he went up to Draco and hugged him close. Buried his face in the crook of the blonde’s neck and drew a deep breath of his lovely scent, feeling all the tension of the last five days draining from him.

   “I missed you, too,” he murmured into his expensive, Egyptian blue robes.

   After a while, Draco raised his arms and put them around him again, almost tentatively. But then he tightened his grip and bent down his head, nestling his face into Harry’s flyaway hair, inhaling audibly. It quickened Harry’s heart, knowing that the blonde enjoyed the same silly things that he did, and he dared to hope for them again.

   When they had satisfied their immediate need for intimacy, Draco proudly told him that these were his private chambers, which he referred to as ‘his apartment.’ Harry felt as if he had stepped out of 2015 and into a 19th century novel at the use of that word. Everything seemed to scream ‘money,’ from the smallest decorative ornament to the largest piece of furniture. It made him feel quite uncomfortable—out of place—but Draco’s presence stole his attention away and soon made him forget about everything else.

   Time flew with the blonde; night came knocking on the door much too quickly and Harry was reluctant to leave for fear that he would never be allowed back in.

   “Stay,” Draco urged, his silver eyes not leaving Harry’s for a second. They were burning with a naked, vulnerable plea that was uncharacteristic of him.

   How could he say no to that? Too mesmerised by the blonde’s intense gaze to speak, he nodded. If he had not been so incredibly nervous, he probably would have cried out in joy.

   “Would you like to borrow a dressing gown?” Draco wondered accommodatingly.

   Insecure, Harry hesitated for a while. “Are you going to wear one?”

   “Oh, no. I never wear a dressing gown to bed; it gets much too warm and I absolutely hate waking up drenched in my own sweat.”

   “Then I won’t wear one, either,” Harry blurted out a tad too quickly, flushing in embarrassment.

   The blonde simply gave him a short nod. “All right; without it is.”

   With every other sound completely drowned out by the pounding of his exhilarated heart, Harry climbed into bed with Draco and awkwardly positioned himself as close as he dared. Eventually, they both relaxed and settled into each other’s arms.

   Harry had not slept as well all year as he did that night snuggled up with Draco.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _Jag vet vad som håller dig vaken_ **(I know what’s keeping you up at night)**  
>  Det är samma sak som håller mig vaken **(It’s the same thing that’s keeping me up at night)**  
>  [...]  
> Och det som gör mig till människa [...] **(And what makes me human [...])**  
>  Är bara min oändliga längtan **(Is but my never-ending yearning)**  
>  (rör mig, berör mig) **(touch me, affect me)**
> 
> _Men jag kan inte lura mitt hjärta_ **(But I can’t fool my heart)**  
>  Hur gärna jag än vill **(No matter how much I want to)**  
>  Kan jag inte lura mitt hjärta **(I cannot fool my heart)**
> 
> — Kent, _Tennsoldater **(Tin soldiers)**_
> 
>  
> 
> For those of you who use the metric system:
> 
> 7 inches = 17.78 cm.

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading! =D I hope you're enjoying the story just as much as I'm enjoying writing it. ^^ Status updates for the next chapter will always be available on my profile page under 'Current WIPs.'
> 
> Have an amazing day!  
> Lots of Love, Pipe.


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